


Hooked On a Feeling, a Sight, a Sound

by barelyaconcept



Series: HOFSS plus bits and pieces [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Brief discussion of suicide, Canon-Typical Violence, Empathy, Guide Peter, M/M, POV Alternating, Sentinel Rocket, WIP, and cursing sorry, but I'm not a psych-anything, doesn't follow the movie super-closely, past trauma, so much shitty science, sort of -- maybe PTSDish, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 42,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barelyaconcept/pseuds/barelyaconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...and then all he knows is the flash of gold hair and blue eyes and *mine* and *guide* and *protect* and *my guide!* and he doesn’t even know what that word is supposed to mean, just that this guy is important, far more important than forty thousand units.<br/>I play fast and loose with the movie, both quotes and plot progression, because this is AU from the beginning.  Starts with the meeting on Xandar and goes from there.<br/>Complete, finally.  Sorry, everyone. (Happy Leap Day, though!)<br/>No sex, though I do have a deleted scene for that, which will hopefully be up soon.<br/>For anyone who came by this because of Jim and Blair or the sentinel fusion tag... well, this is mostly a romance about an alien and a talking raccoon so... you've been warned, k?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light My Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if this works. At first I was all "NOooo he can't be a sentinel, he's a raccoon!" but I figure a raccoon could have a senses upgrade as easily as anyone and it'll still be difficult, so it's not like being a lab-built sentient raccoon really changes that much. It will totally screw with the spirit animals, if I even decide to use them in this fic. Who knows.  
> Ah! Also, Rocket's been using Groot as his sort-of stand-in Guide for a while now, using him as an anchor and stuff, but Groot's not a Guide and Rocket only came online a couple months ago.  
> [Improved Explanation of _The Sentinel_ (owned by Paramount and PetFly) fanon:  
>  _In all tribal cultures, every village had a Sentinel..._  
>  Okay, yeah, but basically, a Sentinel is someone with super-senses (better than a normal human’s or, in this case, a normal whatever) but those senses don’t show up as Totally Awesome! until later in life. Could be as a young child, could be much older, could be entirely dependent on the Sentinel’s situation. The improvement (“coming online”) may be triggered by a traumatic event (this varies from fic to fic: experiene may be extreme loneliness, extreme stress, need for a defense mechanism, etc.). Basically, it wouldn’t be such a huge deal except that all of a sudden, it’s like coming out of a months-long stint in a dark cave and everything is too much. (These senses can also be focused really specifically with imaginary/mental dials, but that requires some training and, usually, a Guide.) Now a Guide is someone who is the Sentinel’s home base. New/untrained Sentinels may often get lost in their senses, so they use the Guide as an anchor, an easy way to come back. The Guide may have various other awesome skillz, depending on the version of fanon, and a lot of Sentinel lore seems to be built waaaay beyond the show.  
> (Which, btw, is awesome, so if you dig it, you should go watch it on youtube!)]

It’s been nearly two weeks since Groot has had to pull him out of a zone when they land on Xandar. After nearly five hours’ worth of hunting for bounties, Rocket’s about ready to give up on this stupid law-abiding planet and shuffle off to the Correlia Sector, because this is nonsense.

 _“Okay?_ ”Groot asks, and Rocket nods, trying to hide his relief at having a good ally at his back with a huff of annoyance.

“’S fine, they’re just loud and sparkly. Balances out okay, though. Don’t drink fountain water, you idiot. You have any idea how much crap is in there? Yes, I can smell it, now stop it. I still don’t see anything. Except... says this one’s worth forty thousand units, and...” Rocket trails off, lost in the gleam of sunlight in brass-bright hair, the messy twist of one hair over another, the shades of red and green and gold in the rays, and Groot grunts a warning that jerks him out of his tailspin. “One more job, and we’re taking a break for a while, you got that? A bit o’ vacation’ll do us both some good.”

“I am Groot.” Not really a full sentence so much as wordless disagreement.

“Yes, alright,” Rocket concedes. “It’ll do me a hell of a lot more good than it’ll do you. But let’s get this guy and go! Where... Shit, where _did_ he go??” The guy -- the wanted guy, wanted by Yondu Udonta, no less -- has disappeared entirely, and Rocket listens hard to Groot’s mumblings as he tries to focus his vision to look for that shock of hair in the crowd.

 _“Over there,”_ Groot rumbles, after an eternity of seconds. _“Due north, running this way, green person chasing..”_

“Shit.” Rocket manages to spit out before the guy is upon him and then all he knows is the flash of gold hair and blue eyes and _mine_ and _guide_ and _protect_ and _my guide!_ and hell, he doesn’t even know what that word is supposed to mean, just that this guy is _important_ , far more important than forty thousand units. And then this woman is going after the Guide and no way in Hades is that gonna fly and then she’s biting him and -- fuck, who even bites people?? -- and oh, there’s the guide, with skin and breath and the smell of gun oil and leather and Rocket’s nose is buried in his neck but then Rocket is on the ground again and he’s looking up to see the woman running after the guide _his guide_ and he’s got his blaster but he’s not sure what to do with it and then Groot has it and is aiming it at his guide and the guide is convulsing and Rocket can’t breathe with the need to go to him but he can’t move anymore because there’s the vague acknowledgment of tractor locks and a voice that might be arresting them all and then he loses everything but the sight of his guide, unmoving.

*

Rocket wakes slowly, choking back a groan at the brightness of the world through his eyelids. He registers the scent of harsh cleaners but focuses in on the smell of Groot and tries not to wish the Groot-smell was more like leather and hair gel.

 _“What is wrong with you?’_ and boy, that is the bitchiest Groot has sounded in a while. _“You have been unconscious for an hour but there is nothing wrong with you. They cannot admit you to the prison until you can walk in yourself. What is wrong?”_

“Zoned, I think. But... Something’s wrong. Doesn’t matter, let’s go. I need...” he trails off, then, because what _does_ he need? He has a hazy recollection of chasing after a bounty, a tall woman with the brightest green skin he’s ever seen, and flashes of bright, bright gold, blue deep enough that he lost himself in it, but... “You can explain on the way. Are we there yet?”

 _“Nearly. Come. If we are to retain our bounty that you might rest, we must be with it when it reaches the Kyln.”_ Groot’s voice is quiet, apologetic, and Rocket wishes he knew how to make the fuzziness in his brain back off so he could reassure his friend.

“Alright, buddy. Let’s go.”

 *

When they rejoin the other prisoners-to-be, Rocket finds himself growling weakly at the image of a bright-eyed man talking up the woman from his memory. Both of them are cuffed to the wall of the transport and he looks exhausted. He messy tumble of hair sparks a little more of Rocket’s memory and he has to grip his fingers hard into the plastic and titanium of his cuffs to keep from getting lost in the memories. He focuses on the sound of the guards’ grumbling as they slap his cuffs against the wall and then he closes his eyes because the world is too bright and his mind is too loud for him to handle all of it at once. He hears an “Oh, hey guys!” from the guide -- as if they hadn’t all been fighting tooth an nail just over an hour ago -- and Rocket nods and mumbles something at Groot about waking him when they reach their doom and lets himself drift to the sound of his guide’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you have comments/suggestions, I'd love to hear them! (I'm not promising I'll use any suggestions, but if I do, I'll credit, and since this story is up in the air, I figure I'll ask.) :)  
> Chapter title is a reference to the first episode of _The Sentinel_ , "Light My Fire," which I think is, in turn, a reference to the song written by Krieger, Morrison, and Manzarek.


	2. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is super-short, sorry! I'm gonna devote tomorrow to writing for this, though, so hopefully I'll have more soon!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, I've realized that my Sentinel info in Ch 1 is complete crap and useless, so I'll try to fix that sometime. It's probably just fanon that Guides are empathic, but I don't even know so I'm just doing a thing, here.  
> Also, I may just drop the "Chapter Title" thing because apparently I was very tired when I decided "Oh, I'll just name chapters after TS episodes! That'll be cool!" except that the episodes aren't actually very creatively named and are objectively pretty boring. Then I thought, hey, Light My Fire is a song, but that's just dumb and maybe I'll do a "In which Mal gains a crewmember, Obi learns to be patient, and Dobby loses a sock" titles like.... someone. Wodehouse? But this is also a TS episode title because I haven't decided.  
> Ah, the AN is longer than the chapter. Whatevs. Sorry, y'all. I'll do better! :)

Peter jerks awake to the sound of terror. Well, sound, feel, mental-sound maybe. He’s never been able to accurately describe the way his particular brand of empathy feels to another person, though it’s a rare occasion when he tries. He wakes to the sound-feel-sense of terror and pride and courage like steel and it’s so much louder than the muted hum of apathy and silent resignation that emanates from the whole Kyln that he knows that it has to be Gamora and he also knows that he cannot let her die, even if she would have killed him for the Orb.

 

He extracts himself from the pile of bodies and vaguely registers a snuffle and snort as Rocket sits up behind him. The brightness of that mind is online instantly and Peter has to remind himself that he has a mission and that he cannot get sidetracked trying to figure him out. The guy’s been weirdly focused on Peter ever since they met (met, tried to kill each other, tomayto, tomahto) and Peter’s not really sure what it means. Sure, he’s pretty glad he hasn’t had to fight people off him, and the force of Rocket’s emotional prescence does seem to drown out the clamor of others’ feelings a little, but the way Rocket had said _“This one here is our booty”_ had caused a shiver down Peter’s spine and he couldn’t help but wonder if he should be worried.

 

Aggressive little guys with whiskers aside, Peter’s going to have to save Gamora’s ass from a pack of slavering prisoners out for vengeance. Granted, he’s sure she could kill all of them in a second, but she doesn’t seem interested in defending herself and he _really_ doesn’t want to listen to the slow death these people probably have planned for her. Also, it’d be fuckin’ awesome if she’d tell him where to sell that orb-thingie, so that’s a point for her survival.

 

Once he manages to talk Big Bald Dude out of completely destroying any hope Peter might have had for getting any sleep tonight, Peter catches up with Gamora and discovers that that damn orb is worth a hell of a lot more than he thought, so he’s definitely gonna have to keep Gamora alive until they can get out and get that thing sold. He notices a faint buzz of what feels like pride, but also maybe some preening, from Rocket when Peter tells Gamora that Rocket’s got mad skills. After they all call it a night, he spends a few minutes listening quietly for the feel of Rocket’s emotions and thinks, idly, that they’re comforting, familiar somehow.

 

He wakes in the morning with the word _Sentinel_ burning through the dream-haze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And hey, it's actually still late Monday here, so if you see any glaring errors, let me know!  
> Argh, multi-chapter fic formatting is harder than I thought. :/  
> This chapter title does come from another episode of TS, but I also love the symbolism attached to the whole devil-at-the-crossroads thing.


	3. Out of the Frying Pan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a move in the right direction. Oh, and an escape, too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving up on consistent chapter titles. They will be called whatever strikes my fancy. Sorry, we're still working with waaay short chapters, but I'm trying to be fair to the guys and also not hold onto too much of the story for too long. Also, I've totally redone my Sentinel fanon summary, so if anything wasn't making sense, hopefully that'll help!
> 
> Title phrase would normally finish with "...and into the fire," if you don't know that saying.
> 
> Also, you have all been very understanding and totally awesome, so thank you! C: Y'all make me so happy!

Time to take charge of this mission, dammit.

The day had started out well enough, but Rocket is quickly realizing that whatever this... this _pull_ toward Quill is, it wasn’t going to just fade away. If anything, it was getting worse.

He’s done his best to sleep as long as Quill and Gamora will let him, the better to resist that urge to press his own body up against Quill’s, to rub the line of his jaw against that chaotic mop of Quill-hair and just -- d’ast. No, no, _focus!_ No time for that now, anyway, and when Groot nudges him awake, Peter and Gamora are occupying themselves with hashing out potential escape strategies. (All of them were totally unrealistic, of course. Did they think they put just any untrained newbie onto he guard roster at the Kyln? Really.)

Soon enough, the early meal is rolling around and Rocket has definitely heard enough. Peter seems to be convinced that the guards will just let them waltz out the door and Gamora thinks it’ll be easiest just to kill everything in the Kyln with her bare hands The two of them are _also_ sitting propped against the wall opposite Groot and Rocket, and Rocket is about ninety-eight-point-five per cent sure that they’ve been slowly scooting closer to one another over the course of the last hour. He may not know what the hell is going on in his own head, but he does know that he does _not_ like that idea.

It’s time to take control of the escape-planning, but then the early meal is being served and he’s doing his damnedest not to lose himself in the rumble of the crowd of prisoners. They’re startlingly loud after the fairly-quiet isolated stillness of their strategy session and Rocket listens to the quick thud of his feet on the floor to keep himself grounded.

He focuses on leading his little troupe -- because they _are_ his, he knows somehow, even though Gamora isn’t exactly his favorite person and he still doesn’t understand why he’s so attached to Quill -- through the chow line, and he ignores the way he kind of wants to walk between Peter and Gamora, separate them a little. He soothes that urge with the vague hum of satisfaction that tells him that, by being directly in front of Quill, he has placed himself in the best position to defend him from attack. It might help that he swears he can feel the weight of Peter’s focus like sun-warmth on the back of his neck on the way to the nearest empty table/

He’ll remember later that the crack about that guy’s leg was meant as a distraction, an attempt to drag Peter’s attention away from him and his own away from Peter, but when Groot yanks out the system battery and Gamora and Quill leap into the fray headfirst, all he can think for a second is _Ohgod, he’s leaving_ and _Why am I friends with such a dumb tree?_ He patently refuses to admit that he’s actually pretty attached to that dumb, loyal tree... or that he’s really fuckin’ worried about Quill.

Then the flare of laser-fire and the rush of adrenaline drown that out until he finds his mind wandering, trailing a heartbeat as it moves away from his own.

Then he’s perched on Groot’s back, and the thwack of bodies against the plasteel pauses for a second and a voice says “Creepy little beast!” like a greeting. Frankly, they’re all lucky Groot was already looking that way because _hell_ no he’s not answering to that, but Rocket catches the gun -- almost a cannon, really -- in both hands, holding the grip tight.

In that instant, when he catches the gun that the rude, shirtless guy throws to him, he realizes that he shouldn’t be functioning right now, with the roar of someone else’s heartbeat in his ears (Peter’s, it’s Peter’s heartbeat that’s drowning out his own). He remembers countless times when sunlight has glanced off glass and pulled him in or the feel of the minute cracks in the soil under his feet has left him immobile for minutes at a time, and he thinks that he likes this, letting the too-fast thump of someone’s cardiovascular valves balancing out the intricacy of light on metal. He racks the hammer back and grins when the sound doesn’t affect his focus.

“Oh, yeah.” He could definitely get used to that.


	4. ...And Into the Line of Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of drunken arguments and sudden sympathies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh, so sorry this took so long. I have no excuses. I got distracted and then disheartened and then got all guilty over waiting so long and just... ugh. Anyway, I know this chapter is waaay short but I felt like it was better to take the natural chapter break than trying to force it all to jive as one. So, next chapter: more Peter!  
> Remember the last chapter title? Yeah, I like to think I'm clever sometimes.  
> (Oh, hey, and this is finally progressing a little. Y'all let me know what you think of the sorta-time-jump. Does it feel too rushed?) :)

Peter wants to be able to say that the escape goes off without a hitch, but that would be both cliche and patently _false_. It’s a giant mess, but they all make it out alive. (Including Drax the Scary Bald Guy, which Peter thinks could maaaaybe be a problem, but whatever, they’ll deal with it). He’s high as a fuckin’ butterfly on his own Hell-yes-we’re-awesome! vibes by the time he lands himself back in the Milano, but his empathy still seems to be improving with use and the emotional landscape in there feels like everyone in there bitched one another out without his totally-chill influence. He just hopes that whatever it is will dissipate so that he doesn’t have to deal with it and maybe this gorram awareness of emotions that _aren’t his_ can go back to where it came from. 

The lingering trace of _guilt-desperation-sorrow-relief_ is enough to startle him out of contemplation of his own issues, though, and he tries not to notice who feels like they’ve nearly lost their soul, but it’s difficult not to notice that it has a distinctly Rocket-colored tinge to it.

And then -- jeez! -- there’s Knowhere and Rocket’s snarling up at him and his self-hatred is _terrifying_ and Peter realizes that whatever this is, this thing drawing him toward Rocket, it’s not going away and he... Well, he just might not want it to, because he’s not going to turn away any friends and Rocket? Rocket could definitely use a friend.

Granted, Peter’s really not sure he’s qualified to deal with Rocket’s issues -- he’s ignored the Aedian ads for mind-healing, never took any sort of training, because he’s always ignored his crazy mind-thingie -- but he _wants_ to help Rocket, even though he is a bitchy bastard, and he can’t ignore the way he’s been feeling so much more from everyone since he met Rocket. Peter can’t just let this guy walk away from them, drunk and trigger-happy or not. He’s too important for that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know it's cheesy as all heck, but I freaking love the name Knowhere. Like you can be all "Hey, you know where we are?" "No, where?" "No where, that's where!" *crazy moose-laugh*  
> As always, if I missed any mistakes, feel free to correct me!


	5. We Are Just Too Pretty For God To Let Us Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Collector is a whatever and I take liberties with the slave laws in the MCU. It's not like the writers even know what's going on, so consistency is what you make of it. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws writing guidebooks out the window* Psh, rules. Seriously, Marvel is so confused. There wiki is like a roadmap to nowhere.  
> Chapter title is a quote from Captain Reynolds in episode one of Whedon's _Firefly_.

The Collector is a giant ball of sleaze. Well, that’s Peter’s professional opinion, at least. The woman who introduced them is apparently his slave and, while Peter is aware that some planets in this quadrant do allow for indentured servitude, he’s damn sure that most of Tivan’s “employees” won’t show up on any Citizen Registry. From what Peter can tell, he may even be breeding them. And, though he’s not getting more than a vague sense of superiority off of him, Peter’s absolutely positive the man actually thinks of himself as the Collector instead of a real name. He’s got a creeper-eye on Groot, too, and Peter’s willing to bet he’d be more than happy to have any of them -- except maybe Peter himself, Terrans probably aren’t interesting enough -- in his “collection,” whether dead or alive. The man makes his skin crawl, and he’s really starting to reconsider whether dealing with him is a good idea. Peter is briefly grateful that Rocket seems to trust Gamora to deal with Tivan, even though his indignation has burned through the synthehol-haze, but then he’s caught up in Tivan’s dramatics and being _so fucking sure_ that selling to this guy is a bad idea.

And then -- _goddammit_ \-- the woman is stepping forward, grabbing for the blinding purple and all Peter can feel for a second is the flare of her determination but it’s too late and all he can do is dive for cover as the building erupts into brilliance and terror.

He can’t focus on anything but surviving the onslaught, swamped in other people’s experiences and trying desperately to hold onto his own sense of self amid the chaos. He focuses on the people he’s anchored himself on in the last few hours and finally finds himself conscious and alive amidst the rubble, huddled against what might have once been a desk with Gamora. 

They collect the orb and pick back through the ruins and out into open air. Rocket meets them before they can even start looking for him.

“What do you still have it for??” and “I can’t believe you had _that_ in your purse!” and wow, okay, right when Peter was committing to being attached to Rocket he has to go and get all unreasonable.

He explains -- quite rationally, he thinks, with only a minimum of screaming -- that it is _not_ a purse and they can _not_ leave the orb just sitting around, but Rocket’s not buying it. 

Then, god, can they not just _catch a break please_ , Ronan shows up and no they _can’t_ catch a break because someone who Peter had thought was at least not working directly against them has decided to _call in the crazy mob boss_ and that’s definitely uncool. 

Saving Gamora is an impulse. A stupid one, granted, but an impulse none the less. Later, he’ll justify it to himself as not wanting to feel her die, but at the time it’s an animal need to keep as many of his people alive as possible and he can feel the split-second lurch of a similar emotion from Rocket.

That brush of _protect-how-can’t-protect-sorry-sorry_ from Rocket is probably about half of his incentive to go after her anyway, the shock of the still-improving scope of his empathy pushing him to act. The sharp _guilt-sorrow-need-no-why?_ that comes from him when Peter launches himself from his pod almost has him reconsidering, trying to spare Rocket that pain, but he has information the others don’t and he _can_ do this and save the both of them. With his last second of consciousness, he does his best to push a thought to Rocket, though he has no clue if it will work. 

_It’s okay_ , he thinks as he loses himself to the cold and dark of open space. _It’s okay._


	6. Not Of Self, But Of Geography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of feels, character introspection, Rocket being really deep, and HADRON ENFORCER because RESCUE!  
> NOTE UPDATED TAGS, brief mention of contemplation of suicide. Take care of yourselves!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's only a briefest mention of suicide-talk here, okay, but if you have any concerns at all drop me a comment and we'll talk about it or I'll find you an abridged chapter or something! Be safe and stuff!!  
> Alright, y'all are amaaaazing!! I'm so excited that y'all actually like what we've got going here -- I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! This chapter got really caught up in Rocket's motivations around Knowhere, so we have a tiny little jump-back overlap with last chapter. That said, I am so sorry last chapter was so poorly put together. I don't think I even rewatched before I posted gah! So sorry, hopefully I'll do better!  
> On another note, the comics-related info is sooo different. I'm sorry, a spaceship named Ship? I... okay, yeah, I ship it... :P  
> Seriously, though, the movies are like Marvel Reboots, so if there's weird made-up technology explanations in here, it's because Marvel is giving me next to nothing to work with.  
> Thank you for reading!

Rocket knows he needs to do something, think this thing through and get Quill and Gamora back to safety somehow, but for a few precious seconds he’s caught up in fighting his own body, driven by instincts he doesn’t recognize. Every muscle is tensed with the need to move, to protect those he considers his own, to _do something_ , gorramit! He needs to save his idiot guide from his own folly, but there’s... nothing he can do.

Oh, sure, he could dive out the airlock (get a jump up the inevitable end that has been fast approaching since the day he stepped into the ‘verse), he could die with him... And wouldn’t that just be fuckin' poetic. He doesn’t linger on the way he likes the sound of that option for just a second. Poetic, yes. Practical, not so much.

He’s got responsibilities. He has to look after Groot (no, can’t let him fall in with the wrong sort, he’ll never make it), and he thinks he might need to save this stupid galaxy that Peter’s so fuckin' attached to.

The lights take him by surprise when a whole host of ships loom out of the darkness. One sweeps Peter and Gamora up, and Rocket takes a second to be painfully relieved that they might survive a little longer, but then he takes another look at that ship and registers just what kind of craft has taken them in. They may be repressurized and out of danger of exposure, but now they’re in the clutches of Ravagers. _D’ast._

He’s on his way back to Knowhere, then, driven by rage and a fledgling hope that’s overwhelmed by a fear he won’t admit to. He steers his pod-thing automatically, running equations with too many missing values in his head. He knows next to nothing about Terran physiology and, thus, whether Quill (or, for that matter, Gamora) will suffer any ill-effects from that dip into open space. He also doesn’t know where the fuck the Ravagers are headed, but they _have_ to find them (have to make up for past mistakes, save them after I’ve let them down, show him I can protect --) and then he can hear the schlick and scrape of rock-hard wood against bone from somewhere outside his pod and Rocket’s landing his pod in a controlled, sightless crash because he’s lost in the sound of one of Groot’s impromptu medical procedures. The crash manages to shake him out of it, and he tumbles out the airlock as soon as he’s regained his senses. He’s talking even before he’s left the pod in a shower of sparks.

“Blasted idiot!” he starts, and then it’s easy to convey the pertinent details and hiding the _guilt-shame-failure_ of his underbelly with brash insults and hand-waving.

And maybe some pointing of fingers.

What he isn’t expecting is for Drax to agree that he’s the cause of this whole mess, and he really doesn’t know what to do when his own vulnerabilities reflected back at him without disguise. On the offensive, then. And it is about as offensive as it gets, but Drax already thinks he’s a stupid asshole, and Rocket doesn’t know what the flark to do and if he doesn’t say something, it’ll all come spilling out, so. Mock the man who lost his family.

They don’t have time to mourn. They’ve all lost people. Hell, he’s beginning to realize they don’t have time to try and save the ones they might be _able_ to save, because what can they do against a whole horde of Ravagers? The whole galaxy is probably doomed anyway; he and Groot can’t face Ronan with just whatever ship they can steal, with or without Drax. If they run... 

“The only chance we got is to get to the other side of the universe as fast as we can and maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to live full lives before that whack-job ever gets there.

If they run, maybe they could warn someone. Find a planet with better defenses, some powerful benevolents who might take pity on those suffering and face down Ronan. Maybe. 

He has to keep Groot out of trouble, but Rocket knows he won’t be helpful for very long, definitely not a full life. Even now his vision is catching on the textures of shadow on the grimy wall, and Groot’s grumble -- he’s not normally so loud, so angry -- startles him back to himself.

And then Groot’s protesting and he’s too d’ast loyal for his own good but Rocket’s already decided, weighed the pros and cons and decided that a rescue mission is a suicide run and he’s _so gorram angry_ with himself for trying so hard to flee, with them for forcing him to face his own shortcomings, and he’s _kicking_ the fuckin' _grass_ , blast it all!

And yeah, okay, they do have the Milano, at least, as long as Quill didn’t lock it or sommat, but... Okay. They’ll get them back, and then Rocket won’t have to make these decisions for a while, and it’ll be fine. He’s going to get his guide back, whatever the flark that means, and Gamora, because she’s theirs too, and he knows _just_ how they’re going to do it.

*

Being on the Milano without Quill looking over his shoulder is a revelation. No, of course Rocket doesn’t go nosing into things that aren’t his business on purpose, but his senses are still a little spikey and there are tells _everywhere_. ‘Cause the thing is that Rocket doesn’t need a black-light to know what has gone on in this ship. Quill’s presence here is almost tangible, and, while Rocket tries not to notice how his sensory spikes have backed off a little since being onboard again, he _has_ noticed that there’s also a hidden lonely-smell, like old trees and salt-water and nobody permanent but Quill. Once he finishes digging through the navigation interface for code he can copy for their new course, he also discovers that Yondu Udonta just happens to be pretty close to the top of the Milano’s communication log. Rocket also discovers that there are a number of Ravager ships in the ship’s comm log. He doesn’t know why Udonta had a bounty out on Quill, but he’s pretty sure this situation is waaay more complicated than he thought. He just hopes he can unravel it before one of his team turns up missing pieces.

He splices the nav-codes in with the tracking system he’s worked up and sends it to the array in front of the copilot’s chair. Groot can probably figure out how to run it without much instruction, and Drax is running an inventory of their assets. 

“Hmm, one box of... a bomb, perhaps? I believe this one is yours, actually. What, exactly, is it?” Well, Drax is done with the inventory for now, then.

“That, my tall, shirtless companion, is what we’re gonna use to get our people back.”

“Hmph. What is it, then?”

“It’s a bomb. To be fired from a gun.”

“Oh. I like the way you think, small, furred one.”

Rocket grins. 

*

It takes too long to find the Eclector. He’s tracked them with a combination of the StarLord helmet’s connection to the Milano and the emission signature of the Ravager ships, but it’s been too long and Rocket’s losing the optimism he’d managed to work up during the planning-flying-tracking stage. Now they’re within sight of the Ravager ship with Quill’s helmet -- and, they hope, Quill and Gamora -- and it’s time to face the music. 

It’s just... This is Rocket’s fault. If he’d managed to get Peter back into his pod, figured out how to shield them, or just been a little faster... But he’d let them take him, let these people took out a frankly ridiculous bounty on his head pick him up like a forgotten toy. And, to top it all off, Rocket’s pretty sure Peter was raised by the Ravagers. He feels pretty dumb that it’s taken him this long to put it together but the bounty was for stealing an artifact, not for running away or for betrayal or however Yondu would word it, but it’s here, writ all over the Milano in comm logs and maroon gear and notes scrawled on crumbled scraps of paper -- _who are you?_ And _you’re better than this_ and _remember her_ and _you deserve to not be eaten_. Frankly, the last one is a little baffling, but the first three, and the countless others make his heart lurch for the -- what even is a young Terran? -- for the yesterday-Peter, leaving little bits of support for himself because there’s no-one else to do it.

He grits his teeth and sends Drax and Groot to get Drax kitted up. Frankly, Rocket hopes they can figure out how the flark that suit goes on, because he’s definitely not climbing all over Drax like some kind of scrambly thing, even if it is just to help the guy get dressed.

Then he calls up the Eclector and he’s all no-holds-barred-we-are-not-fuckin’-kidding and “Five... Four... Three...” and then--

“Rocket, it’s me, for God’s sake, we figured it out, we’re fine!” and his relief is almost euphoria because he may still be among the Ravagers but Peter is alive and chewing him out.

“Oh, hey Quill, how’s it going?” Rocket’s pretty d’ast impressed with himself for being so collected. 

Worried, him? Never!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the amazing poem "We Are Many" by Pablo Neruda, which speaks to me on levels that go all the way from fandom up to existential contemplation.


	7. One Charming Jackass (and All the Ones Who Follow Him)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Quill's fabulous speechwriting abilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY GUYS. (and girls. and non-binaries. guys as a gender-neutral term, anyone?)  
> BUT SERIOUSLY, SO SORRY I HAVE NO EXCUSE (except that I was unexpectedly away from computer access for like a week or something crazy. I'm still sorry.)  
> Okay, I have not seen any of your amazing comments yet, I came straight here to post for you, so thank you for the awesome comments and I'll get back to you as soon as I get done here! To make up for my crazy, I have about another one and a half chapters for y'all today, and hopefully this won't happen again! Still not out of canon; lots of angst aheaed!  
> Also, the next few chapters end on a very :( note, so... I'm sorry again? :/  
> As always, this isn't betaed, so if you see any awful issues, let me know! :)

He’s still aware of his half-assed plan to run to the far edges of the universe with Groot. With Quill back with them -- and, fine, with Gamora and Drax, too -- the plan’s still viable, and even more appealing now. 

And d’ast, but they don’t seem to appreciate that they were on a ship with a whole mess of fuckin' _Ravagers_ who had a fuckin’ _bounty_ out on Quill, gorramit, because Peter keeps insisting that their daring rescue wasn't a rescue. They got them back, didn’t they?!

Everyone’s a critic.

And really, twelve percent? Rocket’s not entirely sure how one calculates the percentage of a plan if that’s all there is of the plan, but if Quill is willing to admit that it’s so... unfinished, it must be a fuckin’ awful plan. 

He cackles, because it’s totally ridiculous to follow this lost, stumbling, charismatic man anywhere, but he knows he’d do it, if given a chance. Of-fuckin’-course Groot’s supporting his sort-of plan; Rocket thinks he may have picked up on Rocket’s attachment to Peter, and Groot is nothing if not loyal. Doesn’t help anything, though.

And now Quill’s speechifying, all tilted head and earnest eyes and only Peter Quill can start a pep talk by calling them losers. Rocket’s stuck between _This is a great idea, he’s a great idea!_ and the too-sharp-to-touch image of every one of these people scattered, broken, across the burnt-out shell of some unsuspecting planet. They can’t do this. Even with them, even with the full force of the Ravagers behind the,. They’re still fighting _Ronan_ , for crying out loud, a Ronan armed with the Infinity Stone, and a few extra thugs and petty thieves weren’t going to change that.

“You’re asking us to die.” _You’re asking us to allow one another to die._ What is he supposed to do with this?

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Peter looks away, looks down and glances back like he can’t really meet Rocket’s eyes now that it’s out there. Rocket hurts a little, because he’s crushed Peter’s hope, replaced it with the sour-sweet of guilt and despair but he’s _right_ , gorramit, they’re not magic, they can’t _do_ this. Rocket listens to him turn and step away, studies a rust pattern in the grating. There’s a little stutter, “I--” as if Peter’s looking for an argument, any argument, to convince them that they can do this, that they _should_ do this, but then the room falls into silent contemplation again.

Gamora’s commitment is a relief. Rocket’s nearly zoned on the sound of Quill’s heart slowing when her voice breaks the silence and, though Rocket still thinks she’s crazy, it’s good. Dying among friends doesn’t sound that bad, when she puts it like that.

Then Drax is stepping up -- yeah, it’s like the martyrdom olympics in here -- and Groot’s saying something inspiring about life without friends being no life at all or something ridiculous and what the fuck is he gonna do? Groot’s going off to get himself killed, Quill’s going off to get himself killed. It’s not like he has anything else to do with his life.

“Aw, what the hell.” Quill’s nearly smiling, and Groot smells like flowers and maple sap and happy, unending things, and Rocket figures if he has to die anyway, this might not be a bad way to go. “I don’t got that long a lifespan anyway.”

He never can resist being an ass, though. so...

“Now I’m standing, y’all happy? We’re all standing up now. Bunch o’ jackasses, standing in a circle.”

And they are happy. He can hear it in the steady pulse of determined hearts, smell it in the kick of adrenaline. They may not live long, but he thinks this might be the happiest any of them have ever been.

 


	8. Eighties Badass Montage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Planning and flying and kicking some ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hah, okay, so I'm reaaaally shortsighted, and the first time I watched this movie I was pretty far away from it, so every time I rewatch, I see something new. Like, ohhey, is Gamora yawning during their Big Damn Slow-Mo Shot?? and ohhey, that's cool, they steer the Dark Aster with, I dunno, holospheres or something?  
> Anyway, let me know what you think! :) You rock!

The next few hours are a whirlwind of actual planning and strategies and weaponry and outfitting. Peter won’t admit to himself that he’s missed working with other people since he lift the Ravagers proper, and he likes planning and scheming and planning and carrying on with these new people he’s adopted. They are, by some unspoken decision, ignoring their original agreement to die with him and are now focused entirely on building a plan that will keep as many people alive as possible. If Ronan manages to survive this and take over the world, it will not be because of shoddy strategizing.

He’s running on the hope and determination of the people around him, now. The atmosphere isn’t exactly the happiest bunch of hooligans that’s ever been, but the Ravagers are all ramped up on the promise of a lucrative heist and Peter’s people are determined to make the most of what they have left of their time. 

Rocket makes a joke about needing a prosthetic eye for their plan -- apparently that’s a thing now -- and he actually _giggles_ and that, more than anything, reassures Peter that maybe this’ll turn out alright, one way or the other. If Rocket can still laugh, there’s hope.

They kit out Drax and Gamora and Rocket in Ravager maroon and Peter thinks they look pretty badass, even if he’s already considering an if-we-survive-this-we-need-new-team-colors contingency plan. He’s never questioned the Ravagers’ outfitting system before, but he takes a second to wonder what kind of magic fabreplicator they must have in storage when he sees Rocket’s and Gamora’s gear.

And then, finally, all the calls have been made, orders issued, threats acknowledged and ignored, weapons checked one last time, and all that’s left is a quick prayer to any and every deity he can think of and then Ronan’s fleet is approaching.

The plan... Well, the plan works, mostly. About as well as any plan can be expected to. 

For an instant, when he yells “Rocket, hurry!” he feels a hot wave of amused irritation from the Milano, like _What the hell else would I be doing?_ And then Rocket’s lost in the frantic calculations until Rocket’s voice comes over the comm again, and they’re headed for the hole in the Dark Aster’s hull.

HE thinks it’s going to be over before it even began when Gamora’s panic is biting at the edges of his awareness and they’re not getting any closer to the Aster, but then the Nova Corps show up and he’s _fucking ecstatic_ and this is absolutely going to work!

It’s quiet on Ronan’s ship, the kind of sudden silence that’s startling after the roar of the battle outside, and Groot’s little light-show makes it all the more surreal. 

Drax’s quick elimination of Nebula blurs into Groot eliminating an entire hallway full of Ronan’s people and the afterimage of his hopeful grin is overlaid with the echoes of Drax continuing to misunderstand metaphors and some vague knowledge that Gamora has to take Nebula out again.

Finally, Gamora gets the door open, and Rocket’s warning him that they’re running short on time, but they’re in and the Hadron Enforcer puts out a _brilliant_ explosion. There’s a moment of _ohgodreally_ and so much relief at having finished this that his head is swimming with it... but the smoke clears and Ronan’s straightening himself out, apparently uninjured.

That hammer-staff-thing packs a serious punch when it’s powered by the Infinity Stone, and, hey, turns out Ronan’s a serious asshole, but that thought is lost when he feels a wash of emotion from somewhere outside, somewhere... Rocket? It feels like Rocket, and it’s all determination and ferocity, before something huge comes crashing into the Dark Aster, and Peter barely has the wherewithal to grab hold of Groot as he jumps out of the way of flying debris.

He stumbles to the Milano and pulls Rocket -- unconscious, quiet -- out through the shattered viewscreen. He carries the limp body back to where Groot stands, kneels down next to Gamora and Drax’s unconscious form. He takes a deep breath and looks around at these people who have become so important to him.

He looks around at his friends and thinks that, yeah, he doesn’t regret it. Not a bad way to die, with the guy he sort-of-might-be emotionally attached to in his arms and surrounded by his friends, his family.

Not bad at all.


	9. We Are Groot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sacrifice is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-short chapter because I am a giant drama queen, sorry!  
> This is the last chapter I have for today, but I will be back soon!  
> Also, what the hell, Marvel, I have to come up with some kinda deep bullshit for Groot's last words to his best friend, dammit.  
> (Yeah, he's a giant cheeseball because I'm a giant cheeseball.)  
> Thanks for reading! :)

Rocket’s eyes flutter open to Peter’s face and that’s really nice. He rolls his head sideways a little, trying to reorient himself, where the _hell_ are they, what happened, did Ronan--? And then it’s all back, and they’re on the Dark Aster, and there’s Groot, but he’s growing, growing... Around them, Azban help them, but he’s going to try to save them, and he can’t he _can’t_ he heals but that’s a fuckin’ process, you can’t grow a tree out of thin air, oh no _please._

He still hasn’t found the words. He’s managed to scramble out of Peter’s arms, meet Groot’s gaze head-on, and he doesn’t have to ask, but he has to stop this. He never should have dragged Groot into this, never should have gone into business with someone so gorram self-sacrificing, he’s too gorram good to die, far too good to die saving someone like Rocket.

“No, Groot! You can’t; you’ll _die!_ ” He’s found words, finally. They aren’t helping. “Why are you doing this? Why?”

They’re nearly nose-to-nose now, and Groot brushes a vine against his cheek. Rocket hates him, a little, except that it’s impossible to hate Groot. Maybe he just hates himself for getting them into this.

_“I may die, but you will live, and we will both be surrounded by friends,”_ he says, and Rocket thinks he ought to punch his big stupid face because he’s fuckin’ _crying_ now, and it’s not gorram fair, he wasn’t supposed to die, he was supposed to hang out with Rocket until he didn’t need someone to keep him out of shady business deals and then go flourish on some tree-planet somewhere and maybe keep a few hazy-fond memories of a short, angry, hairy guy who kept him out of trouble for a while.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.


	10. Picking Up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle and the Aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I'm having some technical difficulties, and classes started yesterday. I know this is short, but I have the beginnings of the next chapter or so mostly ready to go; just have to read-through again for giant plot flaws. (Lolz, what plot?)  
> I was reeeaaally tempted to make this first little section a separate chapter, but I figured that might be rage-inducing, plus I did that whole thing last chapter, so.  
> WARNINGS for discussion of the aftermath of a terrorist attack. Seriously, I have no experience with disaster recovery, and I'm sure the cleanup would take much longer here, but this is Xandar. I tried to treat the issue with the respect it deserves, but if anyone has any issues with the way I did things, please let me know!  
> Also, WARNING because Rocket is legit carrying around a part of his dead best friend's body, so...  
> :)  
> Thank you for reading!

The fall seems to take forever, and Rocket clutches his best friend close and wishes he could come up with some way to stop this, some way to save the universe without losing the being who has been his whole world. 

He’s got nothing, though, and his time runs out in a bone-rattling impact of metal and bark and smoke.

He can’t keep track of his crew, lost in the screech of metal (or maybe those are voices; maybe it’s all in his head), but then he comes to rest in a pile of cement and plasteel, and then the everything stills, and Xandar is silent.

*

Silent... save for the sound of the Milano’s tape deck. Someone is singing about a brighter world, and _okay_ apparently he’d left that on. Rocket pries his eyes open and sits up to find that he’s clutching a set of twigs in his hands. On his knees, with the sound of some Terran telling him things will get easier, he remembers Groot, all the ways he’d failed Groot, and all the ways Groot had saved him.

“I called him an idiot,” he whispers to himself, and then there are footsteps behind him, slow and heavy over the crackle of flames and the groans of the people around them, and Rocket turns to meet Ronan’s approach.

Then he’s running, and flying, and hitting the ground _again_ , gorramit, and the cowled bastard is lecturing -- some bullshit about fathers and gods and Rocket doesn’t waste his time listening to idiots when he could be blowing them up.

He doesn’t pay much attention to the world around him, focused on boosting the power coil he found and aligning the incendiary with the chamber, until Peter’s voice pulls him out of the building process for a second.

He’s singing, shuffling his feet and bouncing around, and Drax is moving closer to Rocket, but Ronan is focused on Peter. It’s... Oh. It’s a distraction. A very effective distraction, to keep Ronan out of Rocket’s way until he’s got this... whatever running. Rocket lets the sound of Peter’s“dance-off” ground him and decides that a universe that produced this nonsensical man might actually be worth saving.

The last section of the wiring is in place and the... Accuser Eliminator Gun Thing gives an electronic clunk as it comes online. Ronan turns to look at them as Rocket makes the final connection and the gun rocks back and the stone goes flying and Peter’s catching it and then it’s _really fucking hard to move_ but they’re all gravitating toward Peter and the stone -- and Rocket is relieved for just a second because Peter may be hallucinating, but that’s definitely his voice saying “Mom?” and if he can talk he’s probably still alive, right? 

He’d made a crack about a bunch of jackasses standing in a circle, but the whole team-unity thing seems to help, because, after some serious brain-melting agony and a bit of screaming, Peter’s _wielding_ the gorram Infinity Stone like he has some sort of right to it and Ronan’s gone, demolished, and the stone is tucked away safely in a containment orb,

In all the drama, Rocket had definitely forgotten about Yondu, but Peter seems to have that situation well in hand. There’s an extra orb somewhere on his person, and -- yup, he’s got some sort of sleight-of-hand skills because Yondu doesn’t even question it, just makes some entirely-unneccessary snide comments.

Rocket doesn’t really need Peter’s explanation, but Gamora’s reassurances that Peter isn’t alone brings Rocket back to the reality of his own loss. It is nice, though, to have friends around who will pet his ears and mourn with him.

The rest of the day is spent in an interminable haze of cleanup. The Nova officials have called on some neighboring planets for aid, but until they have confirmed that there are no more survivors in the wreckage, they need every hand to assist, and that means the Milano’s crew, too. The dead are laid out and prepared for traditional Xandarian water-burials and the twigs and branches are extracted and laid out with equal respect. Groot will have a funeral pyre, though Rocket’s not sure yet that he can stomach attending.

Two hours after nightfall, the life signs detectors report that the damaged area is clear. The Nova Corps check and recheck them, recalibrating just to be sure, but all Rocket can smell now is death, and the sweaty, exhausted rescue crews. They’ve found all the survivors they’re going to find.

The initial rescue teams -- made up of civilian volunteers, the remaining Nova Corps, and the Milano’s crew -- hand the cleanup over to the relief shifts from Ego with grateful nods and quiet thanks. 

Rocket stands by the pile of Groot’s remains, and his teammates stand with him. He wonders how long they would wait, if he just kept standing there, and bends to pick up one of the splinters. He turns to glance at the people behind him.

“Do you think...?”

Peter steps forward, squats down beside him, and takes the splinter of wood from him. “Maybe. We can... We can find a pot, if you want. I don’t know that it would do any good -- he’s fuckin' resilient, but... Here.” He leans forward, rustles through the pile of branches, and comes up with one that looks a little less... Shattered than the one Rocket had picked up. “Maybe this one?”

Rocket nods, clutches at the sleeve of the hand holding the little branch, and rests his head against Peter’s hand for a second. Gamora’s leg nudges up against his side, and he’s pretty sure that’s Drax’s hand on his head. He must look a mess, if they’re concerned enough to show it.

Rocket sniffs a little and straightens up, looking at what’s left of his best friend once more. Peter offers him the branch and Rocket clutches it to his chest and follows his team into the city to find a place to sleep.


	11. R&R

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath is... exhausting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo... I never got any feedback like "ohmyFGHGYTKING WHAT ARE YOU DOING STAHP" so I'm going ahead with this.  
> As to my absence, my internet crashed. (And, truthfully, I wasn't much better off.) But we're back! Gonna try to be more consistent, try to post some every Saturday or something, depending on whether I have things to do on Friday; we'll see how that plays out.  
> Feedback of any kind is awesome! :)

They end up crashing in the first motel they find. Rocket doesn’t notice anything about it, except that it’s a roof over their heads. They get one room even though the proprietor, haggard and exhausted-looking, offers them separate rooms. Rocket wonders if that’s for his sake, or if the others are worried about letting their friends leave their sight, too.

Boots are cast into a corner and various pieces of outfits go flying, but after Peter finds a cup to put water and Rocket’s twig into, they’re all crashing onto the (really rather large) bed in a heap of dried blood and dusty flight suits.

*

Rocket wakes with a start to a foot in his ribs and hair tangled in his teeth. He blinks until his vision focuses and he stares at the photo of a Xandarian sunset on the far wall; it’s pretty crappy, paper all wrinkled, but the colors are nice.

When he finally summons enough energy to move away from Drax’s foot, he rolls over Gamora -- the source of the hair caught in his teeth -- and shuffles towards the refresher unit. He considers a shower for a brief second, then considers that his team -- and, thus, his bed -- are still grungy as all hell. He then considers that he probably couldn’t stay awake long enough to wash his face, much less shower, so he relieves himself, makes the effort to climb up on the counter to wash his hands and drink some tap-water, and then drags himself back to bed.

He pointedly plants himself on Peter’s chest and, when the Terran starts grumbles about it, informs Peter that Drax and Gamora are not friendly bed-partners, so he can suck it up and be a pillow.

There may be some sort of response to that, but Rocket’s snores drown it out.

*

The next time Rocket wakes, he feels better. Grouchy like nobody’s business, and sore all over, but awake, at least. He itches, though, and a shower is definitely in order. His bedmates are shifting a little, and he hustles into the ‘fresher so that one of them doesn’t beat him to it.

It’s been a while since he’s had access to anything more than a sonic shower, so he tries not to think about anything and just enjoy the opportunity for a water-shower. There’s grit and some blood and more than a few leaves leaving his fur for the drain, but that falls under the Things Rocket Is Not Thinking About category, so he ignores it.

He has to jump onto the toilet to reach a towel, but they’re big enough he could set up camp in one, so that’s nice. He wraps himself up in his giant towel and leaves the ‘fresher in a cloud of warm steam, kicking his beat-up flight-suit ahead of him and into a corner of the main room.

He turns toward the bed and meets Peter’s barely-open eyes. He wanders over to the bed, not sure whether he should put his jumpsuit back on, or just live in this towel forever. He’s also _clean_ now, and the idea of getting back in bed with all that funkiness makes him a little itchy again. Peter reaches a hand out toward him and strokes along his ear.

“Still wet,” he mumbles, and Rocket shivers. His ears are definitely still wet and Peter’s fingers so close to the now-chilly skin are warm and soft and Rocket wants to lean into the touch forever. Gamora chooses that moment to sit bolt upright with a fit of coughing, though, and the noise startles him backwards and makes his ears ring.

His nerves are raw, and there’s still a bone-deep ache that seems to be affecting his control of his senses, and he’s curled into a ball on the carpet under his towel, listening to the echoes of Gamora’s coughing, and then the low murmurs of other residents of the hotel, overlaid by the rush and whoosh of the traffic outside. He’s caught in it, lost, and he can hear _everything_.

“Hey, Rocket?” Peter’s voice is loud, close. It almost hides the rumble of the air freighters and the voice of the reporter discussing the cleanup efforts. There’s a warm brush against his ears, and that’s nice. It continues, petting his cold, wet ears until he’s focusing on that and he can open his eyes and see Peter’s concerned, bruised face hovering above him. He tries to crack a smile and Peter sits back a little.

“Alright?” he asks/

“Yeah, thanks,” Rocket says, because it’s mostly true. He’s much better than he was before, at least.

Gamora seems to have gone back to sleep for the time being, and Peter looks toward the refresher unit. He stands from his crouch and shuffles off, glancing at Rocket before he closes the door as if to make sure he’s not freaking out again like a weirdo.

Rocket climbs into the squishy chair near the window and settles in to wait until Drax and Gamora wake. He doesn’t want to be on the floor if he zones out again. That’d be a good way to get stepped on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know whether I've totally screwed this up! If there's no-one reading anymore, I'll probably finish it anyway, but if it's just completely unsatisfying and y'all have suggestions, I'm willing to re-work it. :)


	12. Into the Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny end-of-canon-arc chapter!  
> (AKA the author decided fuckit let's move on.)

The next few days bleed by in s slow, torturous blur of funerals, memorials, and recovery efforts. Rocket carries his little remainder of Groot anywhere he thinks it won’t be in danger of being lost or crushed. It actually has a pot and soil, now, as Peter had suggested, and it’s... Well, not _growing_ , of course, but it’s not dry and dead-looking just yet. Rocket knows he’ll hurt all over again when his little twig inevitably crumbles with dry-rot, but he’s taking comfort anywhere he can find it right now. He’s zoned on the lingering smell of smoke in the city more than once since the battle, and his teammates seem to have grown used to shaking him back to reality. 

When the Nova Corps had informed them that the Milano had been refitted, Peter had stammered and stumbled (rather uncharacteristically, Rocket thinks). The crew hadn’t expected any sort of recompense or whatever they're considering it; Xandar had plenty of their own recovery efforts to be made, but the Milano had, apparently, been mostly contracted out to a mechanic who knew what they were doing. Once reassured, Peter’s face had split into a grin Rocket was sure he’d never seen, and the Guardians wrapped up their final meeting on strategies for future defense with some of the locals.

Now they’re all packed back into the Milano, flowerpot and all, and they’re on their way to becoming the most badass set of heroic criminals in the galaxy. Rocket settles Groot-twig-pot onto a console where he'll be able to keep an eye on him and thinks that, as futures go, it sounds pretty okay.


	13. What the flark is a pina colada, anyway?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empty bottles and Terran courting rituals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Coffee, Determination, and Not Studying For My Latin Test. Yaaay! :P  
> Seriously, though, I hope this direction is one that's okay! Also, if the tape deck is in the wrong room, I'm really sorry, I can't find my copy of GOTG right now and I'm so ready for this to be posted. I'll check that ASAP. :)  
> (Also, I have not replied to comments yet, but I think I saw something about "fluff deprivation" in there... I hope this begins to make up for that!)  
> [Edit 11-03-15: previous version had them headed for the Andromeda Galaxy. Changed to Correlia in the Penelope Quadrant. Further explanation in chapter 16 notes if necessary.]

With aft thrusters on full for Anywhere But Xandar, they consider heading back to Knowhere, because there’s probably plenty to be done -- or, failing the whole community service gig, plenty to steal -- but the general consensus is that somewhere they haven’t been as a team is the best place to start.

They finally, after much deliberation, decide on picking up the bounty business for a while. Peter’s keeping a weather eye on Rocket, listening for any sign of distress over returning to the trade he and Groot had practiced, but Rocket’s just a slow boil of sad-resigned-guilty. He’s going to have to talk to him. Gorramit.

Peter settles into the cockpit to plot their route for the Penelope Quadrant. He’s never been to Correlia, but he’s heard good things, and it sounds nice, like a good start. 

The Milano purrs as he checks the generated course and makes a few adjustments around high-traffic areas. He shifts her out of autopilot, letting him settle into the ship’s new-ish-but-familiar feel until he can’t recall why he was worrying so much. Plasteel and titanium and gently-glowing lights isolate him and make him feel like it might just be him and the endless black again, if it wasn’t for the constant hum of minds deeper within the ship. He tips his head back against the top of the seat -- the really fancy, leather-ish top of the seat, damn -- and lets himself be lulled into a calm, empty peace with his ship around him and his friends nearby. 

He twitches when a very familiar piano-riff cuts into his zen. Hmm... “Escape.” Obviously, someone got tired of talking or sulking or sleeping or whatever else they were doing while they didn’t have Peter’s sparkling companionship. The course looks good enough to him, so he sets all the relevant alerts and relinquishes the controls.

Four steps down the ladder, and he’s in the control room, and Rocket’s holding a bottle and sprawled across the couch-bench-squishy-seat-thing that doesn’t really belong in a control room. Peter steels his nerve. Apparently they’re doing this now.

“Hey, there,” he says, trying not to startle Rocket. He’s seen the guy drunk and angry, but he’s not willing to bet that the drink would dull his reflexes at all if he’s startled. “Can I borrow your bottle?” It’s casual as all hell, and Peter’s hoping maybe he can coax Rocket into sharing until he can hide it.

“’S not alcohol, Quill. ‘S some kinda fruity thing the Corps stacked in your stores. There’s like twenty cases of that shit. Looks like some kinda kiddy health food. Pretty good, though.” Well. Shit. Awkward. 

“Ah, of course. I guess I’ll just... Find my own, then.” Rocket hums and Peter ducks into the galley. Well, there they are, a dozen or so squat, cubic bottles of something dark red and sloshy. _Fruitsplosion_. Huh, marketing on the rich planets is fuckin' weird sometimes. 

Fruity thing in hand, he opens the top cabinet – the seal sticks a little, 'cause it's been a while since he did a thorough clean in here and he hopes no-one has noticed yet – and digs out the cheesy protein chips. 

He flops onto the couch-thing next to Rocket during the dead-time between songs.

“Hmm, hey. Like this song better. Other one's weird. Dumb.” Peter twitches violently.

“What.”

“Dumb.”

“I heard you, I just didn't... what the fuck, man? The hell is wrong with that song?” He's leaned sideways to look at Rocket. He realizes the flower pot with the Groot-twig is sitting on the couch on the other side of Rocket and leans sideways to give the pot a look like _Help me out here, dude_ , but the not-an-interaction doesn't even phase Rocket, so it doesn't help much. 

“It's... you know. Terrans. Are they all that dumb?” He sounds genuinely puzzled, and he doesn't _feel_ like he's trying to pick a fight. 

“I don't... Rocket, if you don't like the song, then why are you listening to it?” 

“It's not that I hate it. It sounds okay, not that bad, just the whole words. Meaning. Thing. Am I missing something? Also... I don't really know how to use the thing.” That last comes out fast enough that Peter barely catches it. 

“Oooh. We can fix that, though! You just fast forward. C'mere.” He stands and moves toward the tape deck, talking all the while. “And the song! It’s like.. New life in a relationship, you know? I mean, I guess I don’t know, ‘cause relationships are not really a thing I know about, but... It sounds nice, I guess. And it’s like... They find each other on the cortex? Through a community post? I guess, that sounds... It’s kinda like that. But they already had each other, so it’s like...” He trails off as Rocket hops up onto the table by the tape deck. He points to the center button, identifies it as “play,” and then goes through the rest as Rocket considers the song and absorbs the meanings of the buttons as Peter points them out.

When he’s directed Rocket to try fast-forwarding the tape, Rocket begins to speak, focused on the tape deck.

“That’s just it, though. They _do_ have each other and they’re... They’re looking for other people. They’ve already found what they need, so why...? And then they’re back again. Did they just not care enough to find out about each other?”

“I think it’s like finally realizing that what you need is right in front of you. They were dumb and didn’t get it, but managed to sort it out right in the end, I guess. Finally getting that you don’t have to look any longer.” Rocket has stopped playing with the buttons on the tape deck and is just staring at him. Peter coughs a little, realizing that that came out in the most optimistically-romantic way he has ever heard. Well, shit. He hadn’t actually realized how much hope was left in him. Weird.

Rocket jerks back at the noise, looks at the tape deck under his hands, and goes back to the couch.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says as he picks up the empty bottle he’d left there. He grabs his flower pot in the other arm and marches out, leaving Peter to consider the things that are right in front of him.


	14. A Brief Interlude On the Status Of Groot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just chillin' with my sleeping best friend and his best friend's disembodied appendage...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I made y'all worry about Groot, and then I realized he reaaaally didn't get any screentime last chapter, so here's this little 300-word thingie about him! He'll be back to fighting-fit soon enough, don't you worry! :)  
> [Edit 11-03-15: The Guardians are headed for the planet Correlia in the Penelope Quadrant. A previous version had them heading for the Andromeda Galaxy. Which is a problem because they're already there.]

The Groot-twig is alive. He’s absolutely sure of it.

It looks exactly the same. He supposes that ought to have been their first clue, but he doesn’t know much about the decay rates of sentient floral beings. He can feel it, little pulses of warm-happy-warm-home when everyone on the Milano is still. He tries to come up with an alternative explanation, because that’s totally crazy-talk and nobody needs false hope right now, but he’s managed to find a moment when everyone else is asleep. He’s got his music turned up -- not too loud, because Gamora is an absolute _bear_ if disturbed mid-REM -- and he’s keeping an ear on the nav system guiding them to Correlia. He is also pointedly _not_ watching the flower pot perched on the couch in the common area.

He fumbles a lazer cartridge and it hits the floor with a thud. He waits a second, feels the wash of curiosity from the couch. He whips his head around and... nothing. No movement, no expression, but the childlike curiosity remains. 

The mind he feels is so much smaller, so much younger and more innocent and persistent than the Groot he had only known for a few days that he thinks it must be something else. Some kind of Groot-ish asexual reproduction thing, but... It’s still familiar. Rocket rolls over on the couch, grumbling something in his sleep and the baby-Groot _recognizes_ him, gives off a glow of simple affection and safe-love-home that makes Peter’s heart hurt a little with the strength of it. 

He turns back to his blaster, wondering whether he should tell anyone that Groot’s back, wondering if anyone will believe him if he does.


	15. If You Got the Money, Honey (We Got Your Disease)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysterious dream-y nonsense! And Peter missteps, because apparently figments of one's imagination get offended, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As suggested by a guest, the Great Blue Jungle Dreams of Sentinel lore! (I left out the super-morphing mantis-to-Peruvian-chief-spiritual-guide because... well, that would be pretty difficult to explain, since they've never... actually... been to Peru. Damn, what am I doing. The Sentinel groups would kick me out if they knew what I was doing over here.)  
> Also, if there are any typos, I blame them on the dog, who was "helping." Do let me know about them, though, so I can fix them! Sorry this took so long! :)  
> title from "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns'N'Roses.  
> [Edit 11-03-15: the following note is now moot, sorry.]  
> SHITGUYS I FORGOT and my notes here keep getting longer. THEY"RE NOT GOING TO THE ANDROMEDA GALAXY I made a giant mistake. Xandar is apparently *in* the Andromeda Galaxy. I thought I stole it from Trek or Firefly or something, but apparently it's an actual galaxy and they're already there. Epic nerd fail. So, since they'd be the Guardians of the Universe if they left Andromeda anyway, we're now headed for the Penelope Quadrant, immediate destination: the trade planet Correlia, both of which I made up. even though they probably exist somewhere else. (There is, of course, the problem of using Earth names in a largely non-Terran context, but I figure there's probably some sort of explanation, like a translation thing.)

The Pina Colada Song is still stuck in his head three days later when they finally (Finally, thank the ‘verse!) reach the Penelope Quadrant, and are headed for Correlia. It’s busy -- great, hulking freighters and tiny, fast commuter ships whipping past them on their ways here or there and Rocket is just so _relieved_. Once they get there, Quill will be too busy recalibrating the scanners and checking local currency rates to keep looking at Rocket.

Because he is. Even now, Rocket can see him, out of the corner of his eye, looking straight at Rocket and his flower pot with this face like he doesn’t understand something. Like he wants to help somehow. 

Rocket doesn’t know what Quill thinks he needs help with, but he smells like sadness and he looks like he wants to help and Rocket is having exactly _none_ of that nonsense. He doesn’t need Quill’s pity. He’s fine.

Well, he’s fine except that he keeps having these dreams -- dreams he’d _swear_ are real -- in this forest full of great, flat-leaved trees and blue, blue, all of it blue, and something’s missing...

The most recent one had left him agitated and too awake to sleep again just last night, and now he’s all shifty-eyed and tired as hell. He can’t figure out where the hell the dreams _came from_ , though, and it’s so frustrating, but who’s he gonna talk to, really? He talks to his flower pot and Groot-twig sometimes, but even he recognizes that expecting answers would be too much, so he’s definitely not getting any external advice on this one.

Quill’s been looking pretty shifty, too, the last couple days, and Rocket wonders if it’s having so many people in his space. Rocket knows that he’d be territorial as all hell in his place, but Peter’s been totally welcoming and nice about it, like he actually wants them there. Sometimes Rocket thinks he can still smell that enduring loneliness on him, though, masked with bright smiles and friendly laughter. There’s a secret in there, somewhere, but Rocket doesn’t have the foggiest idea what it might be, so he doesn’t really think he can ask yet. He’ll find out, though. His fancy new senses may be a hassle, but they also mean he thinks he’ll be able to suss out any secret.

*

That night, one Peter Jason Quill settles into his bunk with a world-weary sigh. He’s been trying to keep his sleep schedule as different from Rocket’s as possible without seeming too suspicious; he’s noticed that his mind keeps trying to reach for Rocket’s whenever he’s not actively tamping it down, and he doesn’t want to know what his mind could do with hours to do what it likes without supervision. It’s a fucking mess, and some time he’s probably going to have to actually tell his team, but for now... For now, he just wants to get them all settled into this new life, maybe deal with the Groot situation before he starts informing the people he trusts that he can sort-of read their moods.

Rocket’s working on something -- something to do with bounty hunting, Peter’s willing 

to admit he doesn’t understand all the ins and outs yet -- so it’s probably safe enough to sleep. Which, he thinks muzzily, is good, because there’s no way he can stay awake much... hmm... longer....

He finds himself in the same blue jungle he’s been seeing the last few nights. He thinks it must be his subconscious trying to deal with the whole not-just-Terran thing, because these... well, these are Earth trees, the same kind he’d climbed as a kid, complete with cricket-y frog-y noises. He’s alone, and he wonders if he’ll find what he’s supposed to be looking for this time. He wanders the forest for what seems like days, chasing little patches of sunlight, only to have them disappear into the shadows formed by leaf canopy. It’s exhausting, but he can’t give up because there’s something, something truly important around here somewhere.

He nearly trips over a pair of feet when he forgets to watch for roots. When he sees who those feet -- small feet, furry gray feet -- belong to, he almost asks how Rocket didn’t hear him coming, but opts instead for a “Oh, hey Rocket!” in true Star-Lord style.

Rocket startles violently, looks up from the handful of forest loam he’s been sorting through, and then drops it and stands when he sees Peter looking down at him.

“Oh,” he says, like he’s beginning to realize something. “Oh. Shit. Okay, then.”

He gestures to the little clearing, indicating that they should sit, and Peter makes himself at home.

“Missed trees, y’know. Groot’s great and all, but... boring old not-sentient trees,” he says conversationally. Rocket looks at him a little quizzically, but whatever, it’s his dream, he can talk about trees.

“So what are you doing in this neck o’ the woods?” he asks, and then chuckles because they’re actually in the woods and hey, also, wood. Dick jokes will never not be funny.

“Uh...” Rocket says, and shrugs. “Just showed up here, I guess.”

“Me too! Hey, do you believe you’re a real person? Because like I’ve always wondered about like dream-people...” he trails off, because Rocket is suddenly leaping to his feet and he’s fucking _pissed_.

“Ex- _cuse_ me, you pretentious asshat?! How dare-- I know those two call me-- but you can’t-- _you can’t_ because you were supposed to be different, gorramit, you can’t believe that I’m... Not, that I’m something... Else! You’re supposed to be better!”

Rocket’s voice raises and then drops to a whisper as he turns away. “You’re supposed to like me, if no-one else does.”

Shit.

”Shit! Rocket, no, I meant -- I meant people in dreams! I meant do you-- Just -- wait, how can you not know what I meant, you’re a figment of my... Imagination? Rocket turns as Peter starts talking, obviously ready to gut him and serve him up for lunch, but something about the panic in Peter’s voice must catch his attention, because he actually listens. And gapes. And listens some more.

And then he opens his mouth, and Peter’s just not sure they’ll ever sort this nonsense out.

“I _am_... I mean, gorramit Pete, this is _my_ dream, what the flark!” Rocket’s ire has, apparently, not disappeared so much as transmogrified into disbelief and raw confusion.

Well, he’s not alone in that, at least. Peter stares, gapemouthed, for a split second before he finds himself gasping awake in his bunk.

Well, hell.


	16. Here In the Real World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For someone with mad empathic powers, Peter just keeps getting it wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fairly short chapter, but I had to break what I had into two because of a major tone shift and scene change.  
> I've gotten to the point where I'm just gonna write it how it wants to be and if anyone thinks anything doesn't work, just assume that I want to know! I'm still working through the whole psychological aspect of these kids, so I can only hope it works.  
> Also, because of a discussion with a handful of long-time hardcore Sentinel fans, I think I've finally figured out how to work those guys in; they're gonna be real helpful with sorting our stuff out! :)  
> "Here In the Real World" is a song by Alan Jackson, though I recall very little about it and had to google it for the artist.

He takes off at a dead run for Rocket’s quarters. It’s still the fuzzy-wee hours of ship’s morning, and the dream is still buzzing hot-muggy-real in his mind, without the clearheadedness of hindsight to convince him it was just his subconscious doing crazy things. 

That doubt, the doubt of day and reality and sanity kicks in just as the heel of his hand thumps hard against the metal of the door to Rocket’s quarters. He panics, glancing around in an attempt to come up with a reasonable escape, or at least some feasible explanation for his presence in Rocket’s domain at crazy o’clock in the morning. 

The ‘lock whooshes open, then, and the decision is out of Peter’s hands because Rocket is talking about a lightyear a minute, and he’s apparently _not_ crazy. Or at least, not crazy alone.

“Are you -- dream? And you’re an asshole? And blue trees?” Peter thinks, a bit incoherently, that such an experience as his -- as _theirs_ \-- shouldn’t be so easily summed up in ten words, but there’s not much mistaking what Rocket means, so he nods.

“Yeah, that about says it. Sorry, I thought you were... Well. And I meant people I imagined! I’d never really, y’know, talked to one before. Sorry.” Rocket stares at him, head cocked to the side, before stepping back, inviting him in with a vague gesture.

“I think I believe you.”

*

Their “talk” isn’t really so much of a talk as them sitting around talking about anything but what needs to be discussed. It’s fucking ridiculous, but Rocket doesn’t know how to start with the whole “I have crazy senses and generally have no control over them” speech, so that pretty much leaves him with the weather -- black and spacey -- and how long it’ll take before they reach Correlia -- a few hours, at the outside. All in all, not much to discuss. 

“So, uh... You know how this whole bounty thing works, right? ’Cause I’ve never actually been in on that side of things. Care to enlighten me? Any other employment we should be watching for?” He’s watching Groot pretend to be a dead twig as he speaks. (That’s not strictly fair -- he’s pretty sure Groot can’t actually move again yet, is still working hard at just existing, but that knowledge doesn’t stop him from being frustrated.)

“Yeah, it’s not a huge deal. I designed a program -- there’s a memory chip here somewhere -- that’ll help with identification. Runs facial identification against the main wanted boards. Sometimes, if there’s an ad posted somewhere else, I have to add it manually, but that’s pretty uncommon. It’s not really the best long-term employment, you know. Better off salvaging or something.” Rocket’s looking at Groot now, too, with this face like his best friend has left him all over again. Maybe it’s the way Rocket looks, maybe it’s the residual guilt from the dream, but Peter opens his mouth and just sort of loses control over it.

“He’s gonna be okay, you know. Probably. I’ve got a feeling. He’s been looking really... green, the last few days.” Truth be told, Groot still looks exactly the same as he had when they’d planted him, but there’s no way Rocket’s gonna buy “I can hear him in my mind,” so it’s the best he can do.

“Hmm, that’d be nice,” Rocket says, and Peter can feel the irritation roll off him. Irritation and pride and a little hurt. Apparently that was not the best approach; Rocket seems to have decided that Peter's making fun of him or something. Poke the guy in mourning? Either way, Peter's done it again, and this time he's pretty sure it's best to keep his mouth shut. He watches Rocket stand and move deliberately to the makeshift work-space in the corner of his bunk. With a thump, Rocket flops onto the floor in front of a mess of wires with a holo-screen attached with his back pointedly to the room.

"I didn't mean it like that. 'M not kidding," he says as he stands. He takes Rocket's silence as an invitation to shut the hell up and leave before he makes it worse.


	17. Being Tourist-ish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Correlia, hunting for bounties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got lots to do this week (which, let's face it, is about normal) so I probably won't have much time to write. (Or I may write a lot, as a procrastination device. Who knows.)  
> Turns out, bounty hunting is ninety percent sitting around.  
> :) As always, if you see any issues, please let me know!

Correlia isn’t as bad as Peter had thought it would be. It’s loud -- both actually noisy and loud in his head -- but most of the people seem to be fairly happy (or at least operating within a mostly-benign society) and there’s none of the hate or terror that has made his teeth ache since his emotional-monitoring kicked up.

Drax and Gamora seem to like it well enough. Gamora says it’s boring, but Drax reminds her that boring is usually a good thing, and she acquiesces, accepts that most people aren’t as badass as she is and can’t handle as much excitement. Rocket is on edge. Peter can feel his tension, but that low-level irritation is still there and he’s sure it’s directed at him.

Peter realizes exactly how ridiculous this plan is when Rocket whips a holographic comm-pad out of somewhere -- his pockets are magic -- and uses it to focus in on various members of the populace. One short dude and his holoscreen, with a whole group of... Well, they must look like hired muscle, with the way the three of them are lounging against the wall of some great glass-and-plasteel building. Gamora’s chewing on the blade of a knife -- probably picking pear seeds out of her teeth -- and Drax has his arms crossed over his bared torso like he’s just waiting for someone to start a fight. They’re pretty intimidating, and Peter’s fairly sure any criminal with sense is hiding. 

“Guys. We’re tourists. Look... tourist-ish. Casual and shit.”

The shift in postures is startling. Drax slides down the wall into a sitting position and drags Groot’s pot toward him. He begins rearranging the loose layer of topsoil like a professional horticulturist. Gamora shifts into a low crouch and lifts one leg to begin a slow series of movements that Peter thinks must be some sort of dance sequence. Or, strike that, he _would_ think it was a dance sequence, if he hadn’t had his ass kicked by that exact set of moves.

So, they may not be tourist-ish, but at least they’re less conspicuously dangerous. 

The mood of the people nearby seems to shift a little, relaxing around them and people stop crossing to the other side of the street when they see their little group. Funny, Peter hadn’t even noticed they’d been doing that, but there definitely hadn’t been people walking in front of them before.

He sits next to Rocket so that he can watch the process.

“Hey. Show me how it works?” He gives his very best _Yup-I’m-awesome-and-you-can’t-stay-mad-at-me_ grin, cocking his head to the side. Rocket softens a little and offers the screen. Peter angles it around a little, letting the screen focus on a few passers-by, but keeping it low enough that Rocket can monitor his progress.

“It’ll make it pretty clear when you happen across somebody on the boards. All red and flashy and stuff -- makes it hard to miss. The scanner’s got a fairly limited scope -- set to what the cameras can see, of course, but you don’t actually have to focus on everyone.” He gestures to a couple frames of information on a Correlian walking past them. “Those are life stats. Stole a little code and bits from a med scanner or two. Not that important for the standard bounty, but Groot... Medical, you know? And there have been cases when facial recognition brought up somebody who had a clone or something. Better to be safe than arrested for assault and kidnapping, right?” Rocket’s body is tucked in close as he points out parts of the screen, and Peter’s holding his breath with the fear Rocket will notice how close they are and pull away.

All too soon, Gamora starts making noises about food -- “We could get real food. Food that isn’t protein packs!” -- and Drax is grumbling in agreement. They’ll have to find something productive to do while somebody mans the scanner.

The local cuisine is fascinating. Mostly liquid, very cloudy, with some kind of ground root as a thickening agent, if the menu at the little restaurant can be believed, and entirely vegetarian. After the growling teammates are satisfied, Rocket leads them all to a different street corner. This area feels less like a tourist trap to Peter, but there are still plenty of non-locals and Rocket assures them that plenty of wanted types frequent both tourism spots and the underbellies of cities. Pleasure and business in separate spheres.

Drax settles easily enough back into his miniature-gardening kick, but Gamora is shifty as hell and Peter grabs her by the wrist and drags her across the street to the empty corner opposite their teammates. He settles back on his heel and flaps his wrist in a universal “come on” wave.

She grins with too many teeth and her stance shifts. She’s suddenly unnaturally still with narrowed eyes and a look like a hunter. Peter swallows against a dry throat and hopes she’s not bored enough to kill him for sport.

The match is over quickly. Peter knows he’s no slacker in the hand-to-hand department, but she’s been training forever and is also some sort of awesome and terrifying android (he thinks). He glances toward Drax and Rocket to find Drax standing, dusting the seat of his pants and settling Groot in next to Rocket. Rocket, who is laughing his ass of at Peter’s expense. Asshole. He doesn’t seem to be mad anymore, so Peter hopes that means he’s mostly forgotten that he thinks Peter was making fun of him.

He high-fives Drax when he passes him in the middle of the street and flops down next to Rocket, slumping back from a sitting position to sprawl across the walkway. People -- most of whom Peter’s pretty sure had been watching his epic beating -- chuckle as they step gingerly past him, but Peter can barely hear them over the mental sound of Rocket’s laughter settling into a buzz of quiet contentment.

He pokes an elbow into Rocket’s ribs as he sits up.

“Drax know how to run that thing yet?” Rocket gives a hum and a nod as he fiddles with the device’s parameters. 

“Then you get to spar with me when they get done.” He nods to where Drax is holding his own against Gamora’s furious attack, but Rocket isn’t looking in his direction, so it doesn’t matter much. He takes the noise Rocket makes as an acceptance and focuses on Groot.

Gamora flops down next to him with a huff of exhaustion and Peter takes the holoscreen from Peter and hands it to her. She grumble and passes it to Drax as he sits next to her. 

Peter jumps up and dashes across the street to take up the position on the corner across from Drax and Gamora. The small number of people who had gathered to watch Drax and Gamora have dissipated, and the corner is clear again. Peter settles into a defensive position and raises one hand and waits for Rocket to bring the fight to him. He’s seen Rocket in action before, but the technique has always been fairly reliant on Groot’s presence. 

Rocket’s teeth flash as he grins, and he jumps toward Peter to land a punch against his knee. They’re probably going to have to dig out the medical mender when they get back to the Milano, because Peter’s just realized that if Rocket’s in the mood to fight dirty, Peter’s toast.

He’s getting a pretty good vibe off him, though, and the neat pattern of acrobatic leaps and closed-fist punches seem to be geared toward aesthetic impact, rather than actual damage to Peter’s person. He’s in the middle of attempting to work his way out of a headlock when Rocket stiffens and relaxes. Peter turns his head, about to ask what’s up, when he registers Drax’s presence next to them. Peter turns to face him, taking Rocket, who’s still perched on his shoulders, with him, and they wait for Drax to speak.

“We’ve got something. Not sure they’re wanted; it’s not red. Something’s up, though.”

Rocket hops casually to the ground to stand next to Peter and they all look to Gamora, who is glaring meaningfully towards a dark alley on their side of the street.

“What are we waiting for?” Rocket asks, earlier grin still evident in his voice. “It’s not like we’re doing anything else!”

Peter glances around, makes eye contact with his team, and leads them into the unknown.


	18. Not a Bounty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What they found and where they found it.  
> (AKA, we're probably not gonna get paid for this one, but the team really doesn't like slave traders.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is later than anticipated; if you haven't given up on me yet, you are one determined whatchamacallit! Chapter credits at the end, because of spoilery potential. Do let me know what you think!  
> Also, this chapter seems stupidly long to me, but I guess it's not really, by normal standards.

Rocket takes the holoscreen from Gamora as they stroll casually down the street. It’s not far, of course, but the person the holoscreen had picked up is out of sight by now, and startling the afternoon crowd sounds like a terrible idea. Peter finishes strapping Groot’s pot securely to his back and Gamora shifts to the front of their assembly to take point. The alert is still flashing a muted yellow-green up in the corner, details and photo within easy reach, and Quill makes a sound like he’s about to get irritated with the blind following bit.

“Med scanner. Bounty hunting’s pretty unreliable; we hafta watch out for anything that might pay. Fuckin’ research. It usually turned up people with fancy, new cyber-neural mods, but there were some medical. Sometimes it’s picked up some really interesting stuff, though. Stuff he could fix.” He switches the screen to his right hand so he can jerk a thumb in the direction of the flower pot on Quill’s back. “This girl with some kinda Berngian parasite -- _sentient_ parasite. She was actually on Tanzos IV and the medical community had never even heard of Berngi -- technology filtering, very limited cortex access. Talked the gorram thing into going home...” he trails off when he registers the increased tension in his teammates -- Drax’s teeth tend to grind when he’s in the middle of trying to decide whether he should intervene in something that makes him uncomfortable and Peter’s worrying at the straps of the bag on his back -- and Rocket realizes he’s made them twitchy about Groot. Again. He feels bad about that, but he doesn’t know how to stop it, so he barrels on.

He focuses on the mission, tries to ignore the memory of Quill standing, quiet, as he watches the container of dirt and tree and water with an intensity lie he’s listening to something far-off and lost. 

Focus. There may not even be anything they can do -- he’s picked up a few things about treating wounds, but he certainly doesn’t have the instinct for doctoring -- but this day’s been a complete bust so far. 

Gamora comes up to the edge of the alley, rolls across the alley-mouth in a move that makes Rocket roll his eyes, but she signals the all-clear without getting shot, so they move in, two by two. This is new, moving in formation, but they shuffle quickly and near-silently in the small space

Gamora’s feet make barely a noise, and Rocket’s always quiet, but Drax and Peter have neither Gamora’s hard-won grace nor Rocket’s size-based advantage and Rocket counts every step they take and hopes whoever had been dragging the man whose image is still floating in the top corner of the holoscreen aren’t listening too closely.

A shift in the sound of the narrow passage makes him look up, collapse the holoscreen, and tuck it into a pocket. There’s the creak of a metal-hinged door and the sound of raised voices speaking angry Standard. Footsteps into the alley and the catch of a lighter with the smell of cheap Xandarian cathwa burning.

“Down and to the left. Rusty door, but unlocked. At least three inside, angry, one outside, smoking. Ready?” He waits for his team to revolt, or at least to doubt his information, but all he gets is three nods and a matched set of feral, flashy grins from Gamora and Drax as they all check weapons and jog-run toward the turn of the alley.

They take the corner at a run, and the slack-jawed smoker goes down under an efficiently-applied fist to the temple.

Assembled around the door, they take a half-second breather to settle. Rocket listens intently to the inside of the shady building, digging the fingers of his right hand into the rough brick to ground himself. The voices inside are still carrying on, but they’ve calmed enough that Rocket can focus on listening.

_“...the markets are our best option, set up for auction and see what we can--”_

_“No, the Collector will take them and pay handsomely for them, no need to spend time with all the paperwork!”_

_“Hey, hey, but that’s like Canem Quadrant, and we’d have to go through customs! How you gonna hide...?”_

Rocket pulls back -- they’re not saying anything that’s gonna help him, but it confirms what he’d expected. Trafficking, likely of people, because nobody Rocket’s ever met would try to take Corellian oranges out of the quadrant, which means there’s no way they can back out now.

“Let’s go,” and then they’re moving in, yanking the door open with a skull-splitting screech and taking down the three men -- oh, four, actually, but he’s asleep -- inside the close little back room. It’s laid out like a kitchen-slash-crash-room; there’s probably at least another room that the thugs are using. Gamora seems to be taking out every frustration she’s ever had on the man with a blaster strapped to his hip. The other two go down easily enough with the application of a blaster-shot to the calf, but Gamora’s having to keep this guy from getting a hand on that blaster. She’s obviously toying with him, so Rocket leaves her to it and heads into the next room. He steps back, lets Drax open the door for him -- no reason to be jumping around if there are conveniently tall people around -- and steps into the dark room.

There’s a whish of air, and he’s turning, catching a heavy metal bar -- pipe? -- in one hand as it swings toward his head. He holds on, yanks it away from his attacker and stumbles back when they let go. Drax has found the light-panel and the room is awash in too-bright light from old, yellowing strip-lights. Rocket raises the pipe to fend off another attach -- this time the guy -- tall, broad, pale skin and dark hair -- is kicking out at him and there’s another guy -- shorter, really long fluffy hair -- going for Drax. That -- shit, that’s a boot in his gorram _face_ \-- but _that_ is the guy the scanner had picked up and suddenly Rocket realizes that they haven’t really identified themselves as a rescue party. 

He flings the pipe away and starts talking.

“Hey, hey we’re rescuing you! This is a rescue, those guys were trying to sell you to the--” he dodges a swing of hands, tied together at the wrists, “--The Collector! We’re the rescue party!” 

They don’t seem to get it. Drax has long since settled into fending off the furious fists raining down against his person and is just standing there, letting Rocket do the talking. The smaller guy says something -- a name, though it’s one Rocket’s never heard -- and the bigger guy backs up, tucks the little guy into the corner of the room and plants himself between him and the rest of the room. Well, fuck. They obviously don’t speak Standard and their sub-dermal translators must be fried. That’s not uncommon, of course -- if you’re going to sell people, the easiest way to trap them is to make them unable to communicate with other people -- but it makes Rocket’s life really flarkin’ difficult. Also, who doesn’t speak Standard anymore?

“Quill!” he bellows, angling his head toward the door. He turns back to the people in the corner of the room, holding his hands up, hoping that the “hey, I’m not armed” move is as universal as everyone says it is. Oh, his blaster is still strapped to his back. Oops, that probably doesn’t make anyone comfortable. He unsnaps the shoulder-strap and lowers the gun to the ground carefully and steps sideways, away from it and toward the door.

He tries Hailaili, asking after their health and explaining the situation, but it’s clear that that language is a bust. Drax tries Luminal and what little Ancient Xandarian Rocket knows does them no good. He’s about to try and dredge up what he can remember from his Halfworld days without completely losing it when Quill comes barreling into the room.

“Hey, hey!” Rocket says, back to Standard, waving at the two people still watching warily from the corner, trying to get Peter to back ,off on the _I am a crazy motherfucker and I will fuck you up_ act. “Their translators are shot. Any extra languages rattling around in there? Gamora’s on guard duty?”

Peter pauses a minute before nodding tersely. “Yeah, she might have a language or two, though, I can-- but first...” He starts speaking, reassurances with the rumble of Cymoril, and then in something that Rocket thinks comes from Windhölme. Then he starts in on something rough and angular that Rocket’s translator doesn’t recognize, something that sounds like maybe it’s been mostly-unused for many years, because the words come slowly and shakily as Quill puts on his thinking-face.

The two men stand stoic and wary throughout the majority of this recital, but when Rocket’s translator fails, the smaller man’s face lights up where it peeks out from behind the big man’s shoulder. He jabs the big man in the side and the man turns to growl something at him, and Peter tries again.

“Hi?” It’s a weird noise, Rocket thinks, but the big man is turning back to Quill with a look that is, if not exactly welcoming, is less murderous than before. The small, hairy man shoves the big guy out of the way and starts talking, beginning with that same, bright word Quill had used.

There’s a flurry of chatter from both sides, and a few words of what sound like acknowledgment from the brooding man, whose hands are still bound together. Rocket pulls a knife most of the way out of his boot before he hears hears the big man shift and tense. 

“Hey, Quill,” he says. “Explain to your new best friend that I have a knife they can use to deal with all that rope. I think his bodyguard’s about to try and kill me with his brain.”

Quill turns and grins at him and Rocket realizes that he had basically forgotten that the stupid humie had been poking him about Groot and he was supposed to be _mad_ at him. He offers the knife, hilt-first, to Quill, who takes it with a “Thanks!” and goes right back to his rapid-fire discussion with more friendly of the two men and oh, yeah, now Rocket remembers being mad at him.

He stuffs that down to consider later -- or rather, to never think about again -- and moves toward the door after Drax. Quill has this under control, and there’s no reason for him to hang around.

“Hey, Rocket!” He sighs and turns back.

“What.”

“This is Blair! The angry one is Jim. They’re Terran, would you believe it?” He’s so d’ast excited that Rocket can’t seem to maintain his scowl. 

“Hey, there, Blair and Jim.” The friendly guy -- Blair -- grins at him and waves. Jim seems to have absorbed the scowl that Rocket has lost, but he meets Rocket’s gaze, which is damn-near polite in Rocket’s book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, credit for ideas in this chapter go to sur1sur (should I link? I don't even know how to link), who told me I should integrate a Rocket from the future waaaaay back in, like, the first chapter. This... is not that, but that made me think really hard about how this could all come together, and about how a third party might be helpful to the boys. Since Drax and Gamora know many things, but not these things, ta-da! Credits also go to the beautiful people in one of the Sentinel chats, who made me think really hard about my life choices in writing a Sentinel fic without Jim and Blair in it. I actually really like this idea, so I hope you guys don't hate it. Jim and Blair and all their trappings belong to PetFly and stuff. :)


	19. There's a World I Need To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still without translators, our intrepid band embarks on an adventure in intercultural communication!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, if raccon-feet being used for sorta-intimate hand-ish purposes bothers you, you should... *cough*not be reading this fic*cough* I mean... skip the last two-ish chapters. I think it's cute, but hey, some people have a foot-thing. Plus he doesn't really wear shoes. He washes his feet! A lot! It's fine.

They round up the would-be traffickers and dump them off at the local law enforcement office, where an officer with a few more eyes than Rocket’s ever seen on one person seems d’ast impressed with them. Rocket spends a few minutes trying to convince Quill that they should really leave the Terrans with these authorities, too, but Peter’s insistent that, since no-one else understands them, they _have_ to stay with the Guardians.

It’s reasonable enough, so, once the local police get enough information out of the former captives and their translator, they all head back toward the Milano. Rocket stops off at a little stall vendor that looks nice and legal and picks up a pair of sub-dermal translators (and implant syringes) for their guests. He knows flark-all about whether the translator programs would be able to pick up the language, but he figures that even if Quill ends up having to code the new translation himself, they’re going to need the implants. 

Gamora’s impatient about it -- Rocket can hear her stomach grumbling from across the square and over the crowd, even though his senses are starting to do weird out-of-control shifty things -- but Correlia is one of those planets where haggling over prices is a necessary and revered part of the purchasing process, so he doesn’t rush. She can just cool her heels; it’s not like he needs or wants a gorram minder anyway.

Transaction completed, with his pockets about a thousand or so credits lighter, Rocket trucks back toward the docked Milano with Gamora in tow. Truthfully, he’s glad they hadn’t opted to bunk in a local hotel or something, because the Milano is familiar, but when they get there -- _get home_ , Rocket catches himself thinking, which is patently ridiculous -- the Milano is louder and busier than he’s ever seen it. Drax has set up some kind of research center in the common area, with three holo screens spread out around him, all linked up to various message boards on the cortex, from what Rocket can see. 

“Rocket,” he says, presumably as a greeting. “Might I borrow your fancy med-scanner screen? I need readouts on our visitors.” Ah, not a greeting, then, just the beginning of one of the new overly-polite conversational gambits that have been cropping up in the days since the Battle of Xandar. 

He shrugs and hands over the collapsed holo from his pocket as Gamora shuffles swiftly past him and into the galley. There’s no point in taking issue with Drax’s and Gamora’s new formality. He’s not sure where it came from, but it’s infinitely better than being called names, so he’s not going to quibble.

“Where are they, then? And Quill?” They’re not anywhere within sight, so that leaves the bunks, the hallways, and the cockpit.

“Cockpit,” Drax replies, flipping the holoscreen open and pulling up the medical readouts. “The ‘ten-cent tour.’ Quill said.”

Rocket unstraps his blaster and leaves it on the couch in the common area, next to Quill’s pack and the flower pot. He pets the twig for a minute and resists the urge to talk to it in front of Drax before he heads up to the cockpit to check on their collection of humies and humie-variants.

“Yo,” Rocket says as he pokes his head through the open airlock. Quill’s got their pair of humans parked in the front seat, pilot and copilot, and he’s standing with one hand propped against the glass -- which is fuckin’ irritating because the smudges aren’t gonna bother any d’ast one of them but _Rocket_ \-- and talking about a mile a minute in the language that Rocket doesn’t understand. If Quill is or was rusty in that language, it certainly isn’t slowing him down now. They all turn when Rocket speaks, and the friendly long-haired human grins and turns toward Peter and starts speaking. Rocket tunes it out for the moment, taking the time to size up the other Terran. He’s obviously dangerous, but without the context of what any of them have said to one another, Rocket’s finding it difficult to decide exactly _how_ worried they should be. He settles for classifying them both as Level OhShit: Threats To Be Watched, just for safety’s sake, and proceeds to watch them.

Except that he gets distracted because, hey, turns out there _is_ a word that he recognizes in Terran and that’s the word that Quill had assigned to him way back when in the Kyln and the hairy Terran is _using_ it. Apparently it’s a standard Terran insult.

He whips his head around, baring his teeth and advancing on the smaller of the men, only to find himself nose-to-knees with the bigger man, who is glaring down at him and saying something with a loud, deep tone that makes it clear that it’s either a threat or a demand. Quill has moved towards Rocket, too, reaching out a hand as if to hold Rocket off and speaking rapid-fire Terran at the big guy.

“Quill, you’d better start translating real quick, or your new friends and I are gonna have a giant flarkin’ problem,” Rocket says, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring right back at the big guy -- Jim? Jim.

“Rocket, hey, no. It’s okay, he didn’t mean anything by it, I’ll explain, probably should have earlier, but seriously back off. These guys are just out of slave trade, remember? They’re victims, not baddies!” 

That takes all the wind out of Rocket’s sails and layers a ton of guilt that he is _absolutely_ ignoring over his irritation. When he realizes that neither of the men had actually tried to hurt him, he feels even worse, but the lack of communication still has him on edge. He jumps up into the the nearest seat and shuffles back until his feet barely stick over the edge and he can lean his head against the backrest and waves a hand as an invitation for Quill to get on with the explaining.

Peter sighs, a great, exaggerated expulsion of breath, and drops like a stone to sit cross-legged on the floor of the cockpit, right in front of Rocket. He lays out a few more words in Terran and then picks up his knees and swivels on his posterior to face Rocket head-on.

“I guess you picked up on that word? ‘Raccoon?’” Rocket scoffs and rolls his eyes and watches the humans watch Quill. He supposes they’re as lost now as Rocket was before he got all angry over being called a... a whatever. Which reminds him...

“Oh, hey, I was gonna ask if you turned on the language integration program. Is it gonna be able to pick up the Terran, or are you gonna do it? I got translator implants.”

“Hey, thanks! I haven’t turned it on yet... We’ll start in a minute. Let me finish this. It’s not an insult. It’s a name, sort of, an classification of life-form. Like how there are different species on Xandar, there are different species on Earth. Terra. But they all started on Terra, they come from there. And a lot of them aren’t sentient or, well, the Terrans never managed to communicate with them. Raccoon is a name for one of those kinds of beings that humans can’t or don’t communicate with and... And they look an awful lot like you, just smaller and dumber and generally less awesome. So when Blair... He wanted to know where you came from, what your story was.” Peter’s got that earnest face on, the one that convinces Rocket to sacrifice lives to save galaxies, and Rocket feels like he should still be mad because it sounds like these ‘Raccoons’ are the equivalent of the Vulcanian sehlats and that’s not cool, but he’s really couldn’t be angry if he wanted

“Huh,” he says and looks away from Peter toward the humans -- Jim and Blair, he might as well remember, it seems like they’ll be here a while -- and watches as Blair talks at Jim with hand gestures that seem to indicate the Milano’s control panel. “Well, alright then. Not a raccoon. How about those translators?”

Peter grins at him and turns back around to face their Terran guests. His shoulders prop up against the edge of the seat and his head leans back to squash against Rocket’s feet like he thinks he owns the place. There’s lots of hair and Rocket’s definitely not paying more attention to the hair within his toe-grasp than to Quill’s talking to Blair.

“Hey, Ship? Begin language acquisition sequence, intended for integration into translator implants.” And then the conversation is off again, at a pace that Rocket’s pretty sure would be beyond him even if it was in a language he understood, but he doesn’t mind because there’s fuzzy, shiny Quill-hair in his reach and Peter doesn’t even seem to mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? What did you think? I was really happy with it, but not much plot this chapter.  
> Today's title is a clumsy reference to Phil Collins's song "Stranger Like Me" from Disney's _Tarzan_.  
>  And the whole not-quite-an-interaction with the ship at the end is a nod to the comics. I just don't see saying "Hey, Milano?" like they do with Serenity. And "Hello, Computer" is just too Trek for this vibe.  
> And oh! If you don't know Sentinel canon, I'm doing my darndest to make that not matter. I'm not treating J&B like OCs, I don't think, but I'm trying not to make it difficult for you guys. (You should totally watch the show, though. All four seasons are now on DVD and I'm super-excited!) [Edit Oct 21, 2015: So sorry, not an update. I made the mistake of very clumsily asking if Jim and Blair should be portrayed as a couple here, but it was misworded and, thus, misinterpreted. I'm probably going to just do whatever I feel like, 'cause it looks like nobody's got any major opinions on that. I'm very sorry for confusing everyone! Thank you all for your input! Also, I'm super-busy tonight, so I'll reply to comments tomorrow. I want to be able to actually devote some time to them!]


	20. Hunting Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another trip into the blue forest and the sharing of a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a mysterious chapter! Eh, not really, it's probably painfully obvious what's up.

The translators aren’t that hard to set up. It’s just a matter of implanting and activating the translators -- which falls to Drax, because Quill apparently has “a needle thing” -- and then using the Milano's system to transfer the code to those translators, and to the ones the team uses. 

There’s a half-finished code on a drive somewhere in one of Rocket’s pockets and such that would have been meant for Groot. He’d started it way back, when he still thought it bothered Groot that people couldn’t understand him, but he hadn’t had and fancy language-recognition software, so it was all done by hand and he’d given up when Groot hadn’t been interested in speaking to anyone but Rocket. Rocket wonders if he should pull it out and finish it, maybe set it up on the market so that someone else might get some use out of it. It’s sure not doing him any good.

The humans sit still and calm enough for the implant process and when Quill says “How’s that?” the faces of the men in their common area light up with recognition, and they spend the next hour just getting a feel for the technology. There seem to be a few pretty common words that don’t translate very well, and Blair makes this weird face every time Jim refers to him as “Leader of the People” (which, Rocket thinks, is fair enough because that’s pretty weird, even for a Terran nickname) and there’s some kind of aircraft that simply _won’t_ be translated, no matter how Blair tries to explain it, though one word does sound remarkably like Rocket’s own name. Peter has to explain that Terrans don’t do the whole galactic travel thing before it makes any sense.

Once he’s satisfied that the translators are as done as they’re going to get, though Rocket leaves them to it and heads for his bunk. It’s not late, but between the sparring and the crowd-watching and the human-saving... It’s been a long day.

He wakes, tense and still, when the airlock to his bun opens. The air from outside is Quill-scented, and h relaxes a little, but what the flark does Peter want at this hour? 

“Uh?,” he asks. He’s both eloquent and polite, tonight. “Whassap?”

There’s a shuffle as Peter shifts form foot to foot in the doorway. “Well. We don’t exactly... Have a spare bunk.”

Oh, flarkin' hell.

“Hmm. So you’re inviting yourself in?”

Silence. Peter’s standing perfectly still, breathing shallowly.

“You better come in, then. You’re lettin' all the warm out,” and Rocket’s just gonna pass that off as being exhausted because he doesn’t sound nearly as grumpy as he’d intended.

There’s a beat of hesitation and then the soft slap of bare human-feet on the floor until Peter’s pressing himself into Rocket’s humanoid-sized bed and flopping, face-first, onto the bed and turning his face toward Rocket in the dark.

His eyes are closed and his breathing is suddenly, abruptly steady, but Rocket can hear the too-fast _th-thmp th-thmp th-thmp_ of Peter’s heart in the darkness, the beat of it the only proof that he’s feigning sleep. Rocket allows it, stares at the ceiling and breathes slow and even and listens to the sound of Peter’s heart until his own slows and he drifts into unconsciousness.

*

The forest is dark and shadowy this time around, but Rocket doesn’t pay it any mind because the creatures that share this space are quiet, hushed like they’re waiting for something. There’s something -- some _one_ \-- new in his forest.

It’s not Quill. He hasn’t seen him here since that first time,, has tried hard not to think about Quill in Rocket’s dream-forest, but the living things in these woods didn’t mind Quill’s presence. But this is the kind of silence that Rocket knows, instinctively, indicates a population hiding from a predator. It’s the kind of quiet hat he knows he could elicit, if he chose to make a big deal out of his own presence in this forest, but he’s never needed to. It’s his, the crickets and frogs aren’t going to argue, but this? This is new, and it’s weird on every level. 

He prowls the forest, moving as silently as he can, leaping and scrambling over fallen logs and through dense underbrush, moves after the shifting silence with the kind of fluid silence he’s never quite managed to integrate into his too-strong, too-small body, and he falls in step with Peter without a word when they both track the not-sound to the same place. They move together through their forest in sync, and barely catch a glimpse of a fast-moving blue-black shadow slipping through the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, guys, I am so sorry about the mess that was the notes on last chapter. :(  
> Uh, the T key on my keyboard is sticking, so I kept finding "he"s instead of "the"s, so if I missed any, let me know! (Or just ignore it, up to you.)  
> This chapter title is from "Breathless" by Dan Wilson, because I am all out of actual witty titles.


	21. War Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open mouth, insert foot, because everybody's lost someone, Jim.

The next morning finds a galley full of guardians and humans in the mood for a raucous conversation about what it’s like to live on a planet without space travel and how it feels to fight intergalactic villains. Peter’s not entirely sure his head is up for it, after a night of chasing some imagined threat through the woods next to Rocket like they were some kind of badass nature-trackers, but he can listen, as long as he doesn’t draw too much attention to himself. He can listen, and chug down this _amazing_ liquid stimulant that they sell on Correlia and maybe, eventually, he’ll feel less like a zombie.

“...so you really heal that fast? Or you just don’t get hurt?” 

“Healing. Except that I am not made of the same things Terrans are, so I suppose I am more resilient, as well.” Gamora is handling Blair’s questions with grace and poise, even as she chews down on a giant hunk of some kind of meat that Peter had picked up out in the city when he’d gone to find chemicals to ease his headache. 

He’s perched on the edge of the galley counter with his feet banging against one of the cabinets. Drax and Gamora are seated across from Blair and Jim, and the latter two seem to have taken a shine to the Corellian drink because it’s a lot like coffee, apparently. Rocket is, presumably, either hibernating or hiding, because Peter had left his bunk over an hour ago. It’s still early, by anyone’s standards, but Rocket had gone to bed early and he’s normally up to take the early-morning watch shift.

He’s completely derailed from following Blair’s conversation with his teammates by the mental equivalent of grumpy bedhead. Rocket’s mind is a mess as he sweeps into he kitchen, all _gorram humies_ and _loud enough to wake the whole d’ast galaxy_ and a lingering _fuzzy-warm-lonely_ that makes Peter do his best to shut down the emotional scanning. He focuses on his coffee-stuff and pours Rocket a cup without meeting his eyes when the little guy jumps up on the counter to sit next to him.

“So you’re... What, vigilantes, villains with a grudge, ne’er-do-wells?” That’s Jim, and Peter’s wondered when this would come up. He hands the small mug to Rocket and considers their options. As long as his English isn’t complete shit, he’s gathered that Jim and Blair are both American police officers and the guardians aren’t exactly shining examples of law-abiding personalities. Time to run some damage control.

“We’re... a last resort, sort of. Super-heroing doesn’t pay very well, so we do some bounty hunting and salvaging where we can to buy fuel cells, but our most recent accomplishment is saving the galaxy’s organic life from certain doom.” Alright, so it’s not exactly modest, but he figures it’s best to throw in some truthful bragging to distract from the way they’ve broken about every intergalactic law there is.

Blair looks intrigued, but Jim cocks an eyebrow at him with a look that Peter associates with stuffy authority figures that aren’t impressed by his good intentions. He feels Rocket tense up next to him just as Drax begins to speak.

“Ronan the Accuser took lives across the universe before--”

“Now, listen here, you self-righteous badge, we’ve done--”

Rocket and Drax cut themselves off, look at one another, and Drax waves a hand in invitation. Peter gets a wave of _impressed-amused_ from him and opens his mouth because Rocket’s not exactly the person Peter would choose to justify their cause to anyone, but his teeth clack shut when Rocket speaks, calm and rational and convincing.

“We’ve done our best. Neither the local nor the galactic authorities even knew that Ronan was planning anything until we told them. We may not be shiny and official like you, but we did what we could. We lost friends in that fight, just like the Xandarians did, and it wasn’t even our war. Some of us aren’t even citizens, and I don’t see Xandar complaining about our swooping in to take care of things.”

The two men at the table are frozen, both watching Rocket with wary eyes, and Drax looks more than a little uncomfortable, though, Peter suspects, for different reasons, reasons like the _sympathy-regret_ and a solid, slow-growing affection. They’ve all lost people, and Drax respects Rocket for being able to talk about it.

Next o him, Gamora is using a gigantic knife as a toothpick again, entirely unconcerned about the tension in the air.

“Well,” Jim says, new respect in his eyes as he turns to Blair. “Shit, Chief. How do you suggest I fix that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "not citizens" thing is something I'm planning to return to in another fic, but I'm practicing being one of those Real Writers who doesn't answer every question. Makes me feel pretty cool.  
> Groot should be undergoing some seriously rapid growth here pretty soon, 'cause he's built up some strength. Yaay, I missed him!  
> I don't think the title is a reference to anything in particular... Well, no, there's a Firefly episode called "War Stories."


	22. The Return (of the Groot)

I’ve got a pair of guns destined for the scrap heap stashed under a bench in the galley, and when Gamora and Quill decide that they’re going to take one more shot at finding a bounty before we start on our guests’ trip home, I decide that those guns -- and my mission to make at least one good, functional gun out of them before they get tossed out -- are the best use of my time today.

By the time I’ve checked each gun for lazer cartridges and done a quick clean and reassembly, I’ve managed to tune out Blair’s voice from up in the cockpit. The man has an endless supply of questions and today Drax is receiving the brunt of his scientific curiosity, In the mood I’m in, I can’t help but be relieved that it’s not me.

I’ve broken both guns down into their most basic parts and cataloged the parts in a spreadsheet by the time I manage to tune out the sound of Ellison breathing in the common room. I’m typing, rather than dictating to the system, because Ellison’s doing some meditation thing that Blair insisted on and Jim bitched about but is doing anyway. I like the hairy guy, okay, and it seemed important to him, so. Quiet. Blair had said “Meditation, Jim” like that was supposed to mean something and pointed at Groot. Some one-with-the-’verse, inner-contemplation nonsense, but Jim had obediently parked himself on the floor in front of what was left of Groot and studied it like it held the secrets to life. Apparently nobody told them that the flower pot was basically an extremely unhealthy coping mechanism. Ah, well, if he wants to use my dead friend as a focus, I’m not gonna stop him. Guy deserved all the attention he could get. 

I may also be keeping the noise levels down because I get the feeling that any extra noise is going to bring the headache that’s been threatening all morning into being. 

Even the clink of metal on plastic is drilling through my skull, and I’m nearly ready to curl up in a nest of lazer-mags and trigger mechanisms for a nap when Ellison’s startled shout and scrambling movement jerks me into full alert and I’m on my feet and moving toward my blaster before my eyes are actually open again.

When I reach the door to the common area, blaster humming and ready, Jim’s standing, ready to take on the ‘verse, in front of Blair, who seems to have just come down from the cockpit. Drax has also come down the stairs, but he’s standing properly in the room, looking around for the threat.

Neither of us see anything of note, so we both turn to Ellison and my entire world goes to hell.

“Why didn’t you people _tell_ us you had crazy-ass moving plants around here?? Blair, goddammit, stay behind me! Do you even know? Has it been waiting to kill us all in our sleep? Of course you didn’t know, you seem like reasonable people, you’d have dealt with it. Blair, up the stairs, go!”

And then I sort of lose it, because I’m crumpling to the ground and watching a hallucination wave cheerily from a flower pot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short -- I just can't convince myself to switch personae. I know this is really heavy on the Rocket thought processes, but it's all for a reason.  
> Title is sort of a mashed-up reference to George Lucas's _Return of the Jedi_ and Tolkien's _the Return of the King_. And probably some other things I don't know about.


	23. Lessons In Damage Control for the Not-Quite-Captain of a Not-Quite-Superhero-Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's back and everything might be okay.

“Quill.” I gestured to Gamora, graciously inviting her to finish cuffing the boulder of a man as I pull my comm out of my pocket.

“Heya, Drax, I was just about to call you! We caught--”

“Come back. Now. The Groot is alive and Rocket is losing it.”

Shit.

“Shit. On our way. Three minutes, tops. Check my quarters for breakables and pull out a couple tranq darts, willya?”

“I do not believe Rocket would take kindly to--”

“No, for the bounty we caught. He’s flarkin huge, need two darts.”

“Of course,” and the comm beeps as Drax disconnects.

“Alright, my drug-trafficking buddy. I’ve got some domestic problems to deal with, so you’re gonna hop it or I’m gonna be delivering you to the feds as a corpse, got it?”

He looks rebellious for a second, but Gamora tilts her head and smiles at him with every super-sharp tooth on display.

With the prisoner in check, it’s a quick trip back to the Milano, barely a minute and a half before we’re inside with the hatch closed again, but I’m still all kinds of concerned.

Drax seems to have the matter well enough in hand, but he and Jim are just kind of standing across the room from each other, waiting. Waiting for me? Damn.

A quick hand signal and a grunt of thanks sends Drax to assist Gamora with the bounty -- I think I’ve tactfully reminded him that we will probably make more off him alive -- and then I can begin defusing the situation. Before he leaves, though, he pauses, seems to remember something, and turns back to me.

I’m barely paying attention, once I know he’s going to oversee the bounty, because Rocket’s laid out across the floor, staring at where Groot’s pot is perched on the edge of the bench-seat. I realize that the pot is empty about the same time that Drax delicately dumps an armload of wiggling leaves and roots into my arms.

“Groot?” a squeaky voice asks from among the leaves and quickly-blossoming white flowers.

“Groot,” I can only reply as I drop to my knees next to Rocket.

I manage to pull Rocket around so that he’s no longer facing the flower pot, and that seems to jerk him back to the present.

“Peter?” he mumbles. “When’d you get here?”

“Just a minute ago. Hey, hold this and gimme just a second to talk to these guys, yeah? I think they’ve waited long enough for an explanation.” Rocket doesn’t respond, but accepts the armload of giggling foliage, even as some piece of said foliage pats me on the arm in a way that I’m sure was meant to be reassuring.

I look up at the Terrans hanging out against the stairs, and note that they seem to have relaxed a little. I guess anyone is going to be a little tense when Drax the Destroyer looks set on destroying them.

“Hey, guys, it’s totally okay. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about this -- most of us didn’t know, but-- No, I mean, most of us didn’t know he was back. Sorta. Didn’t think he’d be moving soon, but I guess he’s efficient.”

Jim just looks confused, and Blair’s really not much better. I should maybe start at the beginning.

“He’s a gigantic sentient tree-dude, but he died, in that big battle that we talked about, and now he’s sort of... Growing back. He’s got mad healing skills. Make sense?”

“Uh, not really, but I guess it’s close enough,” Blair says, shoving a little at Jim to get him out of the way. “Is he gonna be okay, though?”

He’s looking at Rocket, who is cuddling Groot and looking at him like he might have hung the stars in the sky or something. It’s making me a little uncomfortable, but I have to admit that Groot _is_ pretty cute.

And then Rocket looks up at me and I remember that Rocket’s got about as many issues as the rest of us, and that the most recent ones all relate to his best friend, who is now both miraculously alive and also bite-sized.

“Groot?” Groot says again, and waves one little twig-hand at Rocket’s face. He glances back down at Groot and grins the biggest, wateriest grin I have ever seen and just laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm not so good at "no canon knowledge required." I'll work on it, sorry!  
> I'm always concerned about pacing. I feel like this whole scene -- from Jim freaking out over Groot on through to Peter explaining -- took a long time. (Not the time I took to write it, which I know is horrid, but how it feels in-text.)  
> Also, no references in the title, just my own attempts at wit.  
> Making some edits today, going back through most of the chapters, I hope, cleaning up a few things.  
> As always, if there are any awful errors, do let me know!


	24. In Which Little Is Known About the Groot, Because They're a Selfless People, and Also a Little Passive-Aggressive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Groot-related discussion, and some tiny-Groot cuteness, and, briefly, siding with a not-raccoon over a Terran.  
> (I have seriously Tarzan-y feels about this fic, and y'all are probably lucky Sandburg doesn't have a chalkboard on the Milano.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for anyone who's been keeping track, this should be chapter 24. (What the flark, 24 chapters, and barely twenty thousand words what). I apparently did something stupid and saved a draft of ch. 21 as a draft of ch. 22 and it counted that in the chapter count, even when I posted later chapters? I don't know, but it should be fixed now. Sorry!  
> And this whole brilliant thing about Jim understanding Groot is due to a comment from [lucyolsen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyolsen/pseuds/lucyolsen) but I sorta took the idea -- which was for a totally reasonable "Groot just speaks in a lower frequency" idea and went "OHMYGAWD IT MUST BE PHEROMONES" or whateverthefuq plants do. Hormones? Plantomones? Because there was this whole thing... Seriously, Jim Ellison has actually canonically been ridiculously sensitive to pheromones (long story), so it seemed logical? Anywho, there are no definite answers here, just hand-wave-y science.  
> And someday we're gonna finish this fic. Someday. Sorry it took me so long. I started at the wrong point, had to re-write, and then realized I was writing in the third person and had to re-write again.  
> And Lord help me, I don't know when I switched to the first person. The last two chapters were first person, but the first few definitely weren't. No-one ever complained about it... Opinions? Which one's worse? Can't believe I did that. Don't have time to change it today, though, so if you hate it... sorry!

They’re all seated around the table in the kitchen when the Terrans start with the questions. Jim is, surprisingly enough, the first to speak.

“So, uh... The little guy’s sentient, right? Because I’m pretty sure he’s cursed me out a couple times already, but I haven’t actually met him and he’s... He’s a baby, right? A baby plant-person?”

Everyone is really quiet for a minute and I take a second to check out the emotional landscape. Everybody’s pretty okay, though Rocket’s a little tense, but Jim is also exuding a sense of honest curiosity. So. One of our Terrans, at least, gets the Groot-speak.

“Jim, he hasn’t said anything, man, just ‘Groot’ a lot. Is he whispering? Dial your hearing back a little, man! We’ve talked about privacy!” Okay, one and only one of our Terrans speaks the Groot-speak. Interesting.

“No, Chief, it’s not--”

“It’s pheromones.” Rocket’s emotion-rough voice startles the humans into silence -- and me, too, because I was just about to ask some questions of my own about dialing whatnow? “Sometimes he uses creaks and rustles and things -- you know, tree noises -- but maybe only when he’s bigger? And there used to be like… double-words. Words that most people just can’t hear I guess -- too low, and then everyone just hears a few pieces. I don’t know all the research. But there’s lots of pheromones involved. Are Terrans really sensitive to that? Quill’s never said anything.”

Rocket turns gives me this look like I’ve been holding out on him, and, well, I don’t know what to say. For all I know, it _is_ possible that most Terrans pick up and interpret pheromones. I’m not even a normal Terran, how the flark would I know??

I resort to staring helplessly at Blair, hoping he’ll intervene so Rocket can stop glaring. Blair seems to have an answer for everything. Usually more than one.

“Well, Jim is pretty sensitive to pheromones -- he’s got this super sense of smell -- but most humans aren’t. Jim’s an exception to lots of things. So, okay, do you hear actual words, Jim? Could the translator be helping you interpret things? If you dial your senses back, can you still hear him?”

Drax grunts and pushes away from the table and moves to the stove. Obviously, food is more interesting than weird Terrans, but I’ve decided I need to know how this works. It feels important, somehow. Jim considers Blair’s questions for a minute.

“When I dial it back, the translator doesn’t... recognize it as language, I guess. I don’t know how these work, but maybe... Is there a code for this language, Quill?”

Jim doesn’t really speak to Rocket by name at all and it’s really beginning to irritate me. I know this is a stressful situation, but I’d thought he’d get over it. Apparently not.

“That’s actually more of a question for Rocket...”

Rocket focuses on his hands where they’re serving as a backrest for Groot. The little guy is sitting on the table, growing little vines in patterns across the table. “The code isn’t actually finished. I started it a while back, didn’t have fancy sensors like the ship here, so I was doing it by hand. Ship could probably finish it in an hour or two, if you want. He just never seemed that interested in--” Rocket abruptly stops talking, picks Groot up, and hops off his stool. The four of us still seated at the table watch as Rocket scrambles, one-handed, up the drawers to stand on the counter next to where Drax is chopping some kind of protein cubes. He plunks Groot down in next to the work-space and waits until the cooking process takes his interest before he hops back across to his stool with a surprisingly acrobatic leap.

“He wasn’t that interested in talking to anybody else. Held a grudge because even though the Groots are a leading member of the Galactic Alliance, the most amazing scientists in this half of the ‘verse, none of the Alliance ever really bothered to welcome them, you know? There’s only basic information on them in the cortex, no linguistic information or anything. The Alliance sends their scientific problems to them, serious medical cases -- that’s how he found me -- and they just... pretend they’re not there, just ‘cause they’re all peaceful and easygoing and look like trees.”

“Wow,” I say, and then wish I’d just kept my mouth shut because that was dumb and inadequate. Gamora, of course, chooses that moment to be extremely eloquent and tactful. Figures she’d make me look bad just because she can.

“The Alliance is no longer worthy of that name. The ruling planets are more uneasy acquaintances than allies. The founders -- except, perhaps, the Groot founders -- are all long dead, and many of the councils meant to maintain the Alliance have been overrun by those who seek fame and fortune rather than peace for their people. If the Alliance was so easily overthrown from within, I am not surprised that the only founder left with scruples was ignored.” Having said her piece, she leans back to observe the cooking. Groot is sitting on Drax’s shoulder, watching as he stirs a pot on the stove, and she sweeps him from his perch with one hand so that they can run to the store-room for some Xandarian leeks.

“So no, there’s not a translator code yet, but there could be. Think I should ask Groot for permission?” I’m not sure if he’s noticed that Gamora took Groot with her, but I’m kind of hoping that if he hasn’t, he won’t. He seems okay enough, but he was zoned out on the floor less than ten minutes ago.

“Is Groot... He seems kinda child-like, I guess. Is he, mentally? Like has his mind shifted to match his body? I don’t even know if that’s what baby Groots look like.” That train of thought got away from me, but I do need to know.

“It’s Groot, actually. Works as a plural. When he says ‘I am Groot,’ it’s not just his name -- his name’s basically unpronounceable -- but it’s like an identification. I am of the Groot.” Rocket seems to shake himself back from some sort of contemplation then, realizing that he’s been acting a little off.

“He is sorta child-like, I think, but not as much as it might be. If I understood right, he’s going to be a little more volatile, a little less concerned with adult issues until he’s back to himself. It’s a defense mechanism -- cute doesn’t get you watered and taken care of if you’re insulting your caretaker’s politics.” Groot doesn’t seem like the type of person to insult someone’s politics even if they understood him, but I guess it’s possible a Groot might end up in the hands of their would-be killer and try to take the murdering whatsits out with tiny twig-stabs. I slide out of my chair and move to the water dispenser with a glass.

Blair and Jim start up a quiet conversation about the implications of an invincible, peaceful people -- Jim is convinced that it would make them the _best_ police force, but Blair maintains that peace and police have to meet in a very fine balance -- and Rocket’s looking worriedly into the depths of the water that I’ve set in front of him. 

“And how long before our friend is back to his former glory?” Drax asks, startling me out of my Rocket-contemplation. I’d just assumed Drax was ignoring us, for the most part, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Drax isn’t the kind of person to ignore potentially important information.

“He doesn’t know. Says it depends on lots of planetary factors and on the Groot. He’s never done it before.” Drax hums, considering, and there’s a rustle-thump from the direction of the quarters and storage spaces.

Gamora and Groot put an end to the conversation by appearing with far more than just leeks. They seem to have picked up a couple of about every food item in our stores, and it looks like they might have stepped out to a market stand, too. Blair and Jim also seem to be pretty impressed with the basketful.

“Wow, those are amazing! Is that a fruit?!”

Discussion of growth spurts, Alliances, and language are forgotten as everyone moves to help with dinner preparations, or with relocating the bounty to an empty storeroom, or with clucking over a lost friend found.


	25. Stormbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything seems to be coming to a head at once, because that's just how Rocket's life works.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh, sorry, this week has been nuts. I'll try to write some more tomorrow, but I've still got a paper due on Tuesday. If I can just make it through to Wednesday, I'll get this thing finished eventually.  
> I'd really like to wrap this thing up, soon. I'm sure it must be dragging along for any readers, by now, but it's definitely dragging for me, and I'd like to move on. :P I'll definitely plan things out more in the future (and never post a WIP!) but I'm learning, I think! :) Thanks for all the support, even when this thing is a mess. I'll try to find time to go back through those first-person chapters soon.

“ROCKET!” Rocket jerks out of his contemplation -- contemplation, d’ast it, he wasn’t lost in his own head -- of the gleam of pin and blue in the soap bubbles floating around his hands. He looks down at Groot when he hears a hum that sounds distinctly like " _Someone’s in trouuuuble!"_ and also like he’s been trying to get Rocket’s attention for a while now. Quill and Gamora had volunteered for prisoner transfer duty. They’ve shuffled the guy off to a newly-emptied storage unit, but now they’re -- or they were -- doing a quick check of the room to make sure the guy hadn’t found any way to mess up the ship’s function. Like with explosions.

There’s no point in putting it off; Rocket can hear Quill moving toward the door of his bunk and Groot is just _itching_ to find out why Rocket’s getting yelled at. There was a time when Groot would be all up in arms about someone so much as raising their voice at Rocket, but the expression of glee on his face makes Rocket chuckle. He swipes a little at the soap-bubble hat that Groot is so proud of but leaves most of it in place as he jumps from the counter with Groot in tow.

He pokes his head around the open airlock to Peter’s bunk. “Yeeees?” He puts on his most innocent face, but he can’t help the way his voice sounds so not-innocent. He thinks he probably knows what Peter’s problem i--

“ROCKET you left a gorram _bomb_ under my bunk what the _actual fuck,_ man! That is not where we keep bombs!” He’s pointing at one of the timers left over from the Hadron enforcer, laying out in the middle of the floor like it’s been kicked there. It’s the blue one, with the really nice touch-interface. He’s saving that one for something special, ‘cause it’s _pretty_ , and pretty equipment is not something Rocket often has in hand. It’s all shiny and the Milano’s lights make the plastic-y edges gleam like sunshine...

“Rocket? Hey, Rocket! Okay?” He looks up at Peter;s face, wondering how much time he’s lost staring at that stupid thing. It feels like a lot.

“Hmm, fine. It’s not a bomb.”

“Okay, I-- what?” He must have lost the plot somewhere in there, and Rocket thinks that must be a sign of trust, because if Peter was willing to let the bomb-thing go, he must not really think Rocket would accidentally blow them up, and that’s. That’s pretty nice.

“The timer. Timers. They’re not bombs, just parts. Not even potentially-explosive parts. Needed a place to keep them, but you found the prettiest one. Nice blue. Very blinky.” Peter’s looking at him oddly, head cocked to the side, and Rocket’s beginning to realize that that may have sounded a little weird. Really weird. He needs... He really needs to not fall over.

“Hey, hey, come here, I think you should maybe sit down...” Peter’s got him gently by one arm and is leading-dragging-pushing him toward the bed and it pulls him back toward balance a little. Peter’s hand is against his arm, and this is fuckin’ confusing because he was fine earlier -- well, except for all the soap bubbles and losing track of what he was doing... Nah, that’s still pretty common, when he’s away from Quill. Normal enough.

“’M fine, Quill,” he huffs as he flops onto Peter’s bed. “Why’d ya’ hafta clean under the bed? You never clean under your bed. There was dust older than time under there before... Well, it’s probably still there.”

“Shh, Rocket, what’s-- did you eat something weird? Are you drunk? Waaait, how did you...? Never mind, what’s wrong?” He sounds really concerned now, and that’s not right, everything’s fine, he shouldn’t sound that way..

“Smell nice. Bet you’d feel nice, too,” he mumbled into the blankets. Somewhere, vaguely, his brain is telling him that discussing Peter’s best qualities right now is actually _the worst idea_ , but he’s busy taking in the nearness of his... thing. Word-thing. Friend.. Yes, but no. Important word, dream-word, blue trees... Peter. “Pet’r?”

“Rocket, yeah, yeah, what do you need? We can get to you the med-base within the hour, fifteen minutes if we can find a transport. Let me--” Rocket reaches a hand out toward where their Terran guests come bursting in through the still open door. Quill’s already on the comm with Drax, asking him to find a comm-code for a ground-transport service, which really...

“Tha’s not necces’ry, Pete, jus’... I’ll be fine, it’ll pass.” He’s really not sure of that, but Peter’s looking at him hopefully, though he’s not telling Drax that they don’t need a transport. Rocket thinks he is feeling better, since being on the bed, but it’s leveled out again at confused-and-oversensitive. “Be fine,” he insists again, and sighs a little as Peter moves toward him.

“Can I help? I know sometimes you kinda go all out of it, just check out for a while. Is that part of this? Are you thinking, or tired? Plotting your revenge on my tape deck?” Peter gives a wobbly, unsure grin, and Rocket chuckles a little. The press of Peter’s weight on the bed near his feet is reassuring, and maybe he really will be okay.

Gamora shifts toward the door as the Terrans come rushing in -- they have names, but Rocket thinks he’s doing pretty good to remember their faces, right now. He focuses instead on Peter’s question, even as the bigger guy looms over them.

Just kinda... get lost. Get caught watching things, hearing them. Can’t really find my way back. Have to have help.” He wishes he had real answers. Is he ill? _Is_ it related to the sense thing? Should he tell Quill about the sense thing, really?

The big guy -- his name is Jim, he remembers -- is still looming, sniffing and looking at Rocket kinda funny. He doesn’t like it, and shifts away some before he gets caught up looking at the bare metal where the lacquer on Peter’s ceiling is beginning to flake in one corner of the room.

“Hey, Rocket, it’s okay. Remember Blair and Jim? Jim’s got some medical training, and Blair says they might know some about what’s wrong with you. Be still.”

He listens to the cadence of Groot’s voice, but he can’t really bother to make sense of it. There’s just so _much_ to hear, and the growl of Drax’s stomach is loud. Everything is loud, and bright, and smelly and rough and it’s all so much he wonders how anyone ever gets anything done without getting distracted by the muchness of the universe.

“’Kay,” he manages and loses himself to the blue of Peter’s irises. He can’t really regret it, though. It’s a nice blue. All familiar and a little spinny.

Peter’s hand on his arm brings him back again and he tunes into the nearly-whispered conversation being carried on next to him.

“He says he’s basically been under extreme stress his whole life, Sandburg. He also says we’re dumb for not getting that before, but he’s being pretty nice about it.”

_"I think they might have--"_ Groot cuts himself off to prop his hands on Rocket’s nose and check his eyes. They’re narrowed to slits in the wavy-bright light and he can barely see Groot’s concerned little face. " _Never mind, later. Think it isn’t genetic. Done to him."_

“It may not be exactly the same,” Jim is translating, apparently. “Little guy says it may have -- Goddamn, really? -- been ‘done to him,’ he says. Like a science... thing? Shit.” Jim leans back, retreats from Rocket’s space to lean against the far wall with Drax and Gamora as Blair picks up the conversation.

“Yeah, shit. Okay, Peter listen up. If he can’t focus on what I’m saying, I’m gonna need you to talk him through it. Not sure you’ve noticed, but you seem to be his Gui--his anchor. Rocket?”

“Ehgh? He focuses on Blair for a minute. He has lots of hair, which is pretty interesting, all curly and dark and tangled with some kind of hair tie.

“C’mon, that was good. Back with us? Close enough. I think your senses are doing some crazy things, man, and if you can work with us, we’ll see if we can help. I’ll even spare you the science lesson about it, for now.”

From the far corner, Jim’s muttered “Lucky!” is louder than it ought to be.

“I can sense your sarcasm, Ellison. Can it. Rocket, we’re still kinda loud, huh? Gonna start with your hearing. Oughta make this easier.”

Peter’s hand pets down Rocket’s arm, all sudden-warm and a little distracting, but mostly calming. It makes it easier to listen, a little.

“Try to picture... All the controls around here are digital or some kind of space-tech, aren’t they? Pete, something familiar he can visualize as a mental control.”

“Uh...” Peter says, and Rocket isn’t sure if he’s actually chuckling or not because his hearing has dulled to nearly-nonexistent and everything is smells now. Metal and lazer-afterburn and some laundry that really needs laundering and Blair and Jim and Team and Peter, everywhere Peter like he’s just leaned on everyone and everything in some sort of Terran territory-marking. “...buttons for the airlocks, but those aren’t... Would the tape deck work? He’s used that.”

“Okay, hey Rocket? Remember the tape deck? There’s all kinds of buttons and stuff, but we want to imagine the volume knob.”

“Mm-hm.” This is complete nonsense. Rocket wishes they’d just all stop talking and let him hide.

“Thinking about what you can hear right now, picture a volume knob for us now. Got it?”

“This’s dumb.”

“C’mon, Rocket, try. Pretend we’re that stupid Pina Colada song and turn--”

“Hey, man, I love that song! Can you see it, Rocket? Thanks, man. Now just imagine reaching out and turning it down a little. To the left, y’know. A little more... How’s that? Still too loud?”

The knob in Rocket’s mental image looks exactly like the one from the tape deck in the common area, with the black plastic gone all shiny from years of Quill-ish fingers turning up this tune or that. At first, he thins the difference in volume must just be his imagination. Wishful thinking. He turns the knob back to the right again, though, and Blair’s whisper and peter’s breath-noise and everyone’s _everything_ (great balls of space-ice, is the entire galaxy convened to watch him be all woozy and weird??) make him wince, so he cranks the volume back down.

“Yeaaah,” he rasps out in a voice that is suddenly a quiet rasp. It sounds like he hasn’t spoken in weeks. “That worked. It worked. Everything’s still... Whatever, but I can hear now. Will that work for the rest?”

Rocket can’t see Blair’s gigantic grin, but he can hear everyone’s relieved exhales. It’s strange, but for a minute, it sort-of seems like he has actual friends. It’s weird, yeah, but also about the best thing since an imaginary volume control.

“Hey, Blair? How d’you know all this stuff?”

“Uh... Pop quiz! Walk Rocket through the knob-thing with his other senses. I’ll be back later to check on your work!”

Quill grumbles about being left in the dark, but he stays, so Rocket doesn’t mind listening to it.

“Hey, Quill?”

“Yeah?”

“Your bunk smells like socks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending for a quick finish-this-story-in-two-seconds, if you're totally done with this but want some kind of resolution:
> 
> “Hey, Quill?”
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “Your bunk smells like sex.”
> 
> “Yeah? You like?”
> 
> “Yeah.”
> 
> [and they lived happily ever after]


	26. Medical History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably should've been cut in half, but oh well.

It takes them another half an hour, with a little more coaching from Blair, but between them they manage to get Rocket’s senses under control. Peter can feel the easing of the tension in Rocket’s body(and his psyche) with every brightly-colored volume nob they add. When they’re finished, Peter watches -- everyone watches, like a bevy of buzzards from one of Peter’s vague half-lost memories of Terra -- as Rocket slides off the bed and onto his feet. He stretches and gives a yawn that Peter thinks is distinctly over-exaggerated, before he faces his assembled watchers.

“Well, thank you, kind gentlemen, and Quill,” he says, rolling the vowels like a noble in an old holo. “I feel awesome and I think you might just be my favorite people. Or you will be until Drax makes those pasta things again.” He starts for the door and Peter nearly has to put a hand to his face to hide his huge grin -- but Jim’s standing between Rocket and the open door and the granite in his voice reminds him that, as quickly as Rocket springs back, he could barely stand an hour ago.

“You aren’t going anywhere, Fuzzy,.” Rocket looks up and Peter gets a feel of _whatthefuck_ and _relieved-stressed-terrified_ but something not-angry must show on his face, because Jim (Jim who’s been mostly _calm-stoic-detatched_ since he’d entered the room) softens a little. Peter remembers the one instant when that competent, confident facade had cracked. When Jim had realized what Groot was trying to tell him about Rocket’s history, Peter had been sure Jim was going to leave or yell or maybe even cry, but he’d done none of the above and Peter appreciates the way these guys have adapted. They’re barely out of a situation they’d never been prepared for, and now they’re helping Peter’s crew-family more than Peter thinks anyone has ever helped them.

Blair shifts, and Peter turns to him. He can see it in his face, that Blair knows that Rocket is nearly to the breaking point and Blair nods, acknowledging Peter’s worries and reassuring him.

“We do have a lot more to work through before you’re back to fighting-fit, Rocket. It can wait, though, if you promise to take a nap.” Rocket nods, and Peter misses the snark that should have been there. If Rocket feels awesome, Peter’s the king of the galaxy.

There is one problem they can deal with now so they don’t have to later, though...

“Anybody object to a trip to return our lovely kitten-murdering houseguest to the authorities?”

He gets a chorus of negatives from his crew and his (welcome) guests, and Gamora volunteers for navigational duty. She’d obviously been worried, but she also isn’t used to spending a huge amount of time doing nothing.

Rocket and Gamora head for their respective assignments and Drax grumbles something about disconnecting all the docking systems. Jim follows him, because apparently he’s kind of fascinated by the technical workings of a starship. That leaves Peter, Blair, and Groot sitting on Peter’s bunk, and Peter can’t help but think he should be asking a ton of questions.

“So how do you...? Did you just make that up, I mean? It was pretty great.” Groot is poking at one of the rumpled pillows on Peter’s bunk. He has a point; the bunk is rumpled and in need of a fresh pair of sheets, for sure. He stands and starts pulling pillow-cases off pillows.

“I actually... No. I mean, I adapted the procedure from something I found in a book, once. Jim is... Like Rocket, sort of. He came online -- his senses kicked in -- while he was living rough in a jungle on Earth. They went away again, for a while, when he went back home, but after a while they got bad. Bad enough to see a doctor and I’d been looking out for someone like him, met a few people with similar senses -- just one or two, like they could see really far. I wasn’t sure it would work, but... Worth a shot, you know?”

“Definitely,” Peter nods and sets a pile of clean sheets on the bed.

*

The authorities they drop Jones K’Thartan off with aren’t really authorities. They’re a Sexual and Romantic Relations joint a couple planets over. Peter’s heard rumors that they also do a little freelancing assassination, but from what he’s heard, Madame Reann has a very strict moral code and serious pre-op research policies for that kind of thing. He wonders if anyone’s given her shit for citing the reason for bounty on K’Thartan’s record as “kitten-murdering” but then he meets her and no, there is no way anyone has ever given this person any kind of hell. She’s Correlian herself, all short and round with wild blue hair that tends to writhe like a nest of snakes, but when she smiles Peter knows that this lady must be keeping half the galaxy on the straight and narrow. She’s motherly and terrifying, and Peter thinks she must be the best thing since raccoon-shaped bounty hunters.

It only takes them about three hours of space travel to reach Madame Reann’s headquarters and an hour of introductions and discussion before Madame R sends them on their way with their metaphorical pockets loaded with units and with the name of a little restaurant on Xandar that they just _have_ to visit the next time they’re there. (One of her former associates owns it and Madame R says she’s never come across pie that good anyplace else.)

The ship’s been running its normal routine -- as routine as it can be with extra people onboard, at least -- without Rocket, because he’s still asleep. It’s a little weird, because Peter hasn’t had to run the post-flight maintenance checks since they’d left Xandar and with as busy as the Milano is, Rocket should be bossing people around and generally being everywhere at once, but when Peter trips over a nest of lazer-cartridges spilling out from under the galley sink, he feels less like he’s missing a crewmember.

After they leave Madame Reann’s, though, Blair catches his eye and nods, eyebrows raised, towards the closed door of Rocket’s bunk. Peter sweeps Groot up into his arms -- and away from the stove, who even put him up there? -- to use as an icebreaker. Or maybe an excuse, if Rocket’s mad about his bunk being invaded.

When Peter pokes his head in, Rocket’s awake, flopped across an empty expanse of floor on his back and glaring at a holoscreen. He looks up when the door opens, and Peter doesn’t meet his eyes because he’s turning to gesture Blair in with them. He and Blair make themselves at home on the floor and Groot scrambles down to stand in front of Rocket as he sits up.

_“Missed you!”_ Groot exclaims before he’s taking over Rocket’s lap and flinging the screen out of the way.

“Alright, how’s this gonna work?” Rocket asks Blair, eyeing the invaders of his space with a wary expression.

“Well, I should start by explaining a little. Jim is like you, sort of. Has similar symptoms, at least, so the methods we use ought to work about the same for most things. There’s something more going on here, though, so we’re going to talk through everything now and try to come up with a solution. I don’t know anything about medicine in out here, so once we decide what’s wrong, you can look at medical options. Groot says he knows about things like that.” Rocket nods along, grimacing a little -- presumably at the thought of talking about this -- but he seems amenable enough.

“So walk me through it. When did your senses do weird things first? Does it fluctuate? Are some senses worse than others? Anything you can think of.”

And Rocket spills it all, telling Blair (and Peter, though he’s pretty sure Rocket has forgotten he’s there) about the fuzziness of his pre-Halfworld days and about the spikes in his hearing and vision that had begun after that hazy agony of what they had called transformation. He’d dismissed them, then, as effects of the drugs and the pain, but they were very similar to the sensory anomalies he’s been dealing with for nearly three years now. After he’d escaped the Halfworld, after he’d found Groot, they’d settled out into brief, painful explosions of light or sound or oversensitive skin. They’d slowly grown worse -- slowly enough that he hadn’t really noticed it -- until he could zone on just about anything and with any of his senses. He conceded that it had gotten a little better once he’d met the Guardians. He thinks that maybe he’s finally gotten over the shock and gotten used to them, grown accustomed to the cycle of pain and relief, but this most recent symptom...

“I’ve never almost passed out because of it. I mean, I’d have to hide, find somewhere dark and quiet, but.. It’s d’ast weird, is all I know.” He settles Groot back on the ground and begins rolling washers at him in some sort of game that Groot is all to happy to participate in. Groot meets Peter’s eyes, though, over his shoulder, and Peter can feel the worry and hope from him. He resolves to do his best to fix this, if he can. If he can’t, he’ll gorram find someone who can.


	27. Statistic On a Government Chart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress, finally. Some questions are answered and new ones arise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Not dead! Surprise! Okay, I've decided I'm gonna finish this before I finish posting, but since I've got part of the remainder -- maybe half? -- written out, I thought I'd post it today because end of the year and all. I'm so sorry I jumped into this thing with my eyes closed, and that it's such a wait, but I know where it's going, so I'm hopeful! Think it shouldn't be much longer. I've got maybe two more chapters to post tonight (I haven't split them up yet) but after that, I'm gonna finish this thing, make sure all the loose ends are tucked up before I post it. Hope y'all enjoy! :)  
> These chapter titles are basically a formality 'cause I can't give up on them with the end in sight. Today's is from "Invisible Sun" by the Police.  
> POV change mid-chapter.

“Alright.” Blair shuts down the cortex connection as he turns to face the group entering the common area. He slides down to sit on the floor in front of the cortex interface, presumably so that he’s closer to Rocket’s and Peter’s places on the floor. “I’m convinced that Rocket’s abilities were... _implemented_ intentionally, that they are based largely on Earth Sentinels. Seems like they -- whoever these experimenters were -- got hold of Sir Richard Burton’s book and thought it was cool. There aren’t any of the little inconsistencies like Jim has, though, the variations from the norm. I’m guessing they’d never seen a real Sentinel, so some of the things Burton mentions that aren’t a big deal for Jim are a big deal for you. We’ll have to get access to a med base. Preferably without someone trying to export and/or experiment on us. Any of us. Geez, you guys know you should probably avoid scientists at all costs, right? Any one of you would be in serious trouble on Earth, but with all of you in one ship... Yikes, man!”

A quiet cough comes from Ellison’s side of the room, and Rocket’s kind of impressed by their nonverbal communication, ‘cause Blair recognizes it as a hint.

“Yeah, sorry, okay. Med base. Peter, is it possible? I don’t know anything about building scanners for this. We need an analysis of blood enzymes. I think there’s some kind of chemical dependence. Probably some serious neural stuff, too, but they don’t post much about neuroscience on your cortex.”

Peter stands and steps toward the cockpit, already planning out loud. “We’ll head for Xandar. They -- well, they don’t exactly owe us a favor, but they’re the closest thing to trustworthy for things like this. Very fancy, high-tech. They probably won’t ask questions.”

Gamora intercepts him before he reaches the ladder and gestures him back toward his seat. Rocket gets the feeling she has little interest in the details of their plan; she’ll see that they get to Xandar, though. Peter grins at her and flops back onto the floor like his skeleton has evaporated.

“Excellent,” Blair resumes his monologue. “Now, in... Nowhere? On Knowhere? there’s a person, -- a.... sort of a great historian. Syllogist. She’s got information on people from back _ages_ , okay, and I think she’ll be able to help with Peter’s empathy. I... Jeezus, Jim, this is insane, am I insane?!”

Jim chuckles and scoots his crate of Xandarian radishes so that he can sit closer to Blair. “Never said you were strictly sane, Sandburg, but I think you’re right, if that helps.”

Blair hums and nods appreciatively and Rocket listens as he breathes deep and lets his heartbeat settle back down as he leans against Jim’s calf. “Alright, then, I think they’re connected. Rocket’s senses and Peter’s empathy, that is. Or you’re connected, because of them. This part is purely guesswork, with a little research on super-ancient aliens thrown in, but... They might have intended it as a test, a... Punishment. The same reason they did anything else, but that you’d get worse unless you had this stabilizing agent, but they used an agent -- a DNA sample, probably -- that you wouldn’t be able to find. But you did. You guys are seriously a study in awesome coincidence, man. Anyway, we won’t know much more than that ‘til we can get scanners and see the Syllogist.” 

Gamora returns and nods to Peter. “Ready?” she asks.

“Ready,” he replies.

“Drax, disengage external inertial dampeners and inform Central of our departure!”

Drax follows her to the cockpit with a grumble about bossy team members, but they’re breaking atmosphere within minutes.

*

Peter doesn’t like all the moving cross-galaxy they’ve been doing recently. His nomadic lifestyle has never bothered him before, even made him feel free, but frankly... They’ve gone a hundred lightyears or so in the last month, and now they’re heading back to where they started. It all just feels pretty pointless, and it doesn’t lighten his heart the way it used to. He feels disconnected and overwhelmed and too exposed all at once, but he’s pretty sure it’s all in his head.

All in his head. Yeah, there’s the problem, for sure. His head’s been pretty much a mess since he’s started thinking about this empathy thing as something that he actually needs to deal with. Everyone’s been really supportive, each in their own way, but he’s definitely not going to complain about just wanting to be alone when Rocket’s in as much pain as he is, so it hasn’t really gotten any easier. He’s taken to sleeping on the couch in the common area or in the cockpit since that one night when he’d invaded Rocket’s room. It’s a good thing, too, because Groot is just over Rocket-height now, and he’s sure they take up the whole bunk like... Well, like a little pile of furry-leafy-adorableness, but he’s afraid if he thinks that too loud one or both of them will hear it. That would be the opposite of cute. That would probably get him killed.

Point is, he’s been mostly banned from sleeping in the cockpit. Drax doesn’t like listening to him snore when he’s on shift, and Blair says that if Peter sleeps there at all, he’ll be likely to fall asleep during his shift. He’s built himself a sort-of nest on the end of the couch in the corner, so that it’s dark and quiet and sometimes it’s so warm and close from his own breath that he can’t really breathe anymore so he has to stick his head out in the real world, which is annoying. 

He snatches his communicator off the galley table when it beeps. It’s the Nova Prime’s assistant, and he answers immediately.

“Nova Secunda! Hey there, great to hear from you! What’d the Big Boss say?”

“Peter Quill,” she says and yup, she’s just as unimpressed by his dramatics as the first time he’d called her. “Nova Prime has granted you use of our facilities, provided you are willing to be escorted and, as she said, ‘not walk out with the good silver.’”

Peter’s almost offended at that, but yeah, they aren’t exactly reputable yet, so he figures it’s fair. He grins, ridiculously relieved they won’t have to take over some sketchy backwater med base for their tests. “Sounds like a deal! Thank you, Secunda, and you tell Nova Prime we sure appreciate it, won’t you?”

“You are welcome, Peter Quill,” she says, and he’s sure she might be smiling as she says it. Maybe.

He hangs up and flops back against the bulkhead in the galley. The only thing left to do is call the Syllogist’s reception service, but he can’t do that without Blair to explain what they need to talk to her about. Peter really doesn’t think he can pull of the whole ‘inquiring scientist’ schtick and Blair is in with Rocket, guided meditation and all.

He rubs his hands down his face and opens his eyes to the brightness of the galley and nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds Jim standing barely two feet in front of him. The guy’s sneaky like a... A really sneaky thing. A fox, maybe, but he can’t remember if that’s the big furry thing or the little one, and he feels kinda weird about using animal similes on someone who has a spirit animal, apparently.

“I could guide you in your meditation,” Jim says and, while Peter doesn’t jump this time, he is a little surprised that Jim is offering. The guy doesn’t really talk to him. It’s a nice offer, though. They’d tried doing a group meditation thing, with Blair guiding both Rocket and Peter, but apparently Peter breathes too loud or some shit and Rocket couldn’t bear to be in his presence.

“Or you could wait for the professor to talk you through it again. I’m sure he hasn’t covered _all_ the potential benefits of meditation yet.”

“No, no, yeah, that’d be great. If you would? You don’t have to.”

“In the common area, then.” Jim leads the way, removing his jacket and boots before he settles into a practiced position on the floor. “Eventually, Sandburg’s going to have to accept that I’m too damn old to be sitting on the floor and let me do this in a chair, but since I can still get up without outside assistance, we call it a draw.”

Peter chuckles a little, and Jim gives him a look. “You laugh now. You’ll get there, alien aging process or not. Now, to begin with, you’re going to need to be comfortable, so ditch the ankle-holster.”


	28. The World Made Me First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meditation and contemplation and a little panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Mostly Water" by Laurence Fox.

Peter opens his eyes to find himself surrounded by people. Gamora has folded herself into an impossible knot, propped upside-down against the far wall with her eyes closed, breathing slower than sleep. Drax is seated in the same lotus pose that Blair had shown Rocket and Peter in their misguided group meditation session, and his eyes are closed as well. Blair is sprawled across the floor on his stomach, poking at a holoscreen with one hand and petting at Rocket’s ears with the other. Rocket himself is curled into Jim’s lap with Groot, and the both of them are soundly asleep. Jim almost looks as if he’s still meditating, but his hands pet across the pile of striped fur and leafy twigs in his lap far too regularly to be subconscious. 

Peter’s not jealous about that, okay, he’s _not,_ but he does make a mental note to check with Blair, find out if he should be jealous. Rocket’s never had much family, though, so he tamps down the urge to sweep his best friend into his arms and hide him away from the rest of their friends.

He stands, quietly as he can, and moves toward the cockpit. His team’s not stupid, they would’ve turned on the autopilot, but Peter’s never trusted that thing quite as much as a real person, so he figures checking on it now and then definitely won’t hurt.

He checks all the settings -- proximity alarms set, scanning for incoming spacecraft, everything un-muted -- before he can trust his ship enough to head back down to the common area. He can hear and feel them all shifting back towards activity, further away from the silent calm of meditation. He returns to his spot on the floor to find Rocket standing in it. He sits, and Rocket sits, leaning into him warm and barely-awake-feeling. It’s not the same as the way he’d climbed shamelessly into Jim’s lap, but the sigh of contentment that Rocket huffs out against the inside of his bare forearm makes him feel pretty darn good about it.

“Groot okay?” he asks, because he hasn’t really had the opportunity to talk to Groot much, and can only assume that gigantic growth spurts mean he’s doing reasonably well.

“Yeah,” mumbles the furball tucked against his side. “Good conditions, I guess, for regrowth. ‘Parently your lighting is really good in here and the team gives him ‘emotional stability.’” 

“Huh, wish that worked for the rest of us. Can’t say the rest of us are real emotionally stable yet.” He chuckles a little, trying to keep the conversation from turning too serious, and is rewarded with a silent chuckle from Rocket.

“Yeah, and you would know. Guess we’re not very stabilizing. All this rollin’ around your head. And Gamora and Drax, too. Sorry about that.” Well, the conversation has now officially turned into a mess of depressing and awkward, but at least it isn’t Peter’s fault. He ignores the sharp intake of breath and the thump as Gamora plants one foot on the floor and flips herself upright. This is important.

“Nah, you guys aren’t so bad. It’s kinda loud sometimes, hard to remember where my own head is, but it’s better when we’re in space. And you, especially... You’re not all caught up in pretending to feel something you don’t. If you’re mad, you don’t pretend to be all cool about it. It’s nice, less confusing. I guess maybe... I dunno why, but it’s better when I can focus on your emotional... stuff. All that anger’s pretty cleansing, from the outside at least. Hope that’s not weird. Too weird. Shit.”

Rocket flops around, not really sitting up but rolling to the side until he’s propped up with his head on Peter’s thigh, looking up at him. Peter uncrosses his legs so that the distance from Rocket’s head to the floor might be easier on his neck. “It’s cool, Quill. I can hear your heartbeat all the d’ast time. I mean... Yeah, it’s kinda weird, and prolonged exposure to my emotional state will probably give you a complex or somethin’, but if it helps, go for it. Everything’s a little fucked up right now, so... If there’s any way to make it better, even a little, I think we should go with it.”

“Hmm, good point,” Peter mutters, thinking about the urge he has to clutch Rocket to him and never let go. Blair is thinking about something that is very pointedly _not them_ , all _food-yes-please_ and _absolutely-cheese-yes-not-eavesdropping_ and some _shh-ask-Jim-later_ and maybe some halfhearted guilt, but he’s also leading the charge toward the galley, and Peter isn’t going to criticize someone who might make him lunch.

“I’m not sure this is gonna fix everything, but we should... We should talk more often. I’m kinda attached to all you assholes, so I’d like to be functional as long as possible. Not that I don’t trust Blair’s judgement, but I don’t believe in miracle cures, even from crazy old space historians.” Rocket’s not meeting his eyes anymore and Peter has a realization -- which might have been helped along by Jim’s mental eyerolling at them -- that the two of them are ridiculously weird about this sort of thing. Neither of them is willing to even discuss the weather, much less ask for something from the other, but they -- obviously, apparently -- need the same things.

He bites the bullet and opens his mouth.

“It’s... Is it better when we’re close, too? I mean, Blair said-”

“Yes! I mean, yeah, it’s better. Not as awful. Come hang out in my bunk. We’ll have a sleep-ish.... party. A pile, like in the Kyln. Groot doesn’t even take up that much space. It’ll be great!”

Peter half-wonders if sleepovers are a thing that kids from planets other than Earth do, but then realizes that it wouldn’t matter, that Rocket has exactly zero childhood memories in common with Peter. Maybe he doesn’t have any and just what does Peter think he’s doing?? He has abilities that even he doesn’t know the scope of and he’s hanging out with one person in particular who is 1.) emotionally vulnerable and 2.) possibly seriously emotionally damaged already. He could be fucking with Rocket’s mind and not even know it, and how is he even supposed to deal with that? He curls in a little, dislodging Rocket’s head from its place on his thigh and tucking his legs close so he can wrap his arms around them, take up less space. Less chance of coming in contact with someone, affecting them.

“Hey, hey, if... You don’t have to, okay, it was just a suggestion. If you like the couch that much, it’s fine, Quill!”

“No, no, I mean-- I just-- I’d love to, but what if I’m manipulating you? Everyone, oh Lord, I could be--!”

“Whoa, hey,” Blair cuts in, dropping to the free floor-space in front of them both. Jim hovers just behind him with a pair of bowls full of something that smells amazing, but Peter barely notices through his panic. He stares at Blair, hoping that the man has answers for him yet again. God, but this is a mess. He can’t expect a set of guys from a planet which hasn’t even started an off-world colony to fix all his problems, but here he is, hoping.

“Peter. That is a possibility that Jim and I have considered, okay? But seriously, you can barely even handle listening to other people’s minds. I really don’t think that, if that’s possible, you are capable of emotional manipulation at this stage. And hey, even if you were, subconsciously, don’t you think we’d all be nicer to you? I mean, you could argue that, but Gamora still rolls her eyes at you about a thousand times a day, right? And you said Rocket never liked any of you in the beginning. I think that’s a possibility that we need to not worry about right now, okay? We’ll... There are mind healers, aren’t there? We’ll find them after we visit the Syllogist. Don’t worry about it.”

Peter nods as Jim hands Blair one of the bowls. He takes a moment to breathe and glare at the rug on the metal floor of the common area. There’s a stain, a faint purple blotch, just to the right of his right foot. He wonders if it was once paint or a protein drink, but a hand on his shoulder brings him back to the issue at hand. He turns to Rocket, standing next to him and trying to look more angry than concerned.

“If you’re okay with it, after all that, I’d love to hang out with you guys.” And then he stands, like a coward, and doesn’t wait for a response, taking full advantage of his significantly longer legs as he flees for the galley.


	29. Clinging (To the Past, To Normalcy, To You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really angsty and schmoopy. Final chapter 'til I get this thing done, so I'll see ya on the other side!  
> As always, if you spot any typos or other errors, please let me know! :)

Peter spends the rest of the day in communication with the Syllogist’s receptionist, scheduling a time to meet with her and, more importantly, convincing her that meeting with them is actually worth her time. Apparently she’s a little old and a lot batty, but Rocket figures that if he held the secrets of the universe, he probably wouldn’t hand them out to just anyone who wandered in, either. It’s reasonable enough, but Rocket just can’t figure out how Blair thinks he and Peter can -- how anyone could -- convince the Syllogist that their little band of fools should be granted her audience.

It’s a fuckin’ mess, is what it is, and Rocket really wishes they’d just maintained the status quo, with no weird dream-forests and no passing out in other people’s bunks and no Terrans telling them what’s wrong with them and how to fix it.

He feels bad about that last part, but it really was easier to ignore whatever’s wrong with him when no one else knew.

He’s laid out on the floor of his bunk, wrapped up in the blanket off his bed and staring at the ceiling when Groot comes in through the open door.

 _Do you miss him already?_ Groot asks, trotting across the room and bouncing to a stop next to him with the kind of energy Rocket had never known him to possess when he was bigger. He wants to tell Groot to fuck off, to spare him the scientific inquiries, but... But it’s Groot, and he can’t find it in himself to turn him away anymore. 

“Yeah,” he says, and hopes Groot might leave it alone. They have another three days before they reach Xandar. He doubts he’ll be able to avoid talking about this for that long, but he can hope.

 _And he’s cute, right? I mean, you like him?_ Rocket does a double-take at that and then rolls toward Groot and reaches for his forehead. It’s dry, and warm-ish, but not cracking in weird places, so he hopes that means his friend hasn’t been drugged or something.

“Whadda you even know about cute, short stuff?” he finally asks, chuckling at Groot’s offended face.

“I am Groot!” he says, and Rocket interprets that as a loud-but-nonverbal exclamation of offense.

“Alright, alright, you wanna pretend we’re Xandarian five-year-olds with no worries but about boys, we’ll pretend. Yes, he’s cute, even if he’s d’ast tall. I like him more than I should, too. I wanna lick him all over, sorta -- yeah ey, sorry,” he says when Groot makes an _ehrmagherd gross!_ face. “Don’t tell Blair I said that in front of you, ‘kay? Or Drax. They don’t get that you’re basically as adult as you’ve ever been now, on the inside. But I want to just be where he is, yeah? Not like with you, I’ll keep you around forever and make sure you’re safe and not let you get lost or anything, but it’s like... Like he’s a part of me that I didn’t know was missing. Like if I didn’t have a tail. I’d never know I needed one, ‘cause I’ve never met another me, but suddenly I’ve got this temporary tail and I can balance like nobody’s business and it looks fuckin’ awesome, but it’s detatchable, yeah? I need him to be permanent.”

Groot hummed and grinned his splintery grin at him like Rocket had done something worth being proud of. Rocket huffs out a laugh at his dumb tree face and turns back to his contemplation of the scratches on the ceiling. The metal plating had been sanded down with a rotating circle, a wire brush probably, if the depth of the scratches are any indication. It’s fascinating. Really.

Well. No, not really. Not when all he wants to do is go find Peter and drag him away from the comm unit and just.. Be close to him. Listen to him bitching at the Milano’s fidgety fuse box or something stupid. He knows it’s selfish, and futile, but he can’t help but think that the bare couple of weeks since the Battle of Xandar has been too busy. He wants to know these people., know who they are when they’re not fighting tooth and nail to save an entire galaxy... or to save _him_ from his own traitorous mind.

Groot curls up silently against him. He’s gotten bigger again and he probably stands about six inches taller than Rocket. Rocket listens to the rustle of him settling his head on Rocket’s shoulder and wishes he would stay this way, stay small enough that Rocket can take care of him, wishes he had more time to be there for Groot when he’s still growing back into himself, but he figures it’ll be a matter of days before Groot’s back to full size, and with his team focusing on this thing in his head, this Sentinel thing, a lot of the next few days are going to be spent under microscopes and shit. 

Azban help him, but he is just flarkin’ _maudlin_ today.

Groot pets his ears like he knows that Rocket’s in a mood and he doesn’t mind. Rocket’s grudgingly admits to himself that it’s really nice of him, even some contrary part of him wants to shrug Groot’s hand off and be a lonely martyr. Groot turns toward the open door when Rocket’s ears twitch in that direction. There’s someone at the door. Judging by the sound of his heart, it’s definitely Peter, but Rocket doesn’t bother to turn his head. He’s not done being maudlin, dammit,

He’s swamped in the smell of sweat and raw protein powder and the sound of a slowing breaths when Peter sits down next to his pile of blanket and Groot. He greets them both and then, when he doesn’t get any real response from Rocket, proceeds to tell Groot about how nice the Syllogist’s receptionists are.

“And there’s food warming up, but Drax says it has to cook for, like, a lightyear or something, so I’m just gonna...” He leaves the sentence unfinished, but the missing information is filled in by the arms wrapping around the pile of blanket and Groot. He’s gentle about it, making sure nobody’s twigs get broken or tails bent backward, but when Rocket finds himself smushed up against a warm blue undershirt, he clenches his claws into the blanket and tries to relax around the irritation. It’s nice in Peter’s arms, safe and warm and all, but he’s still in a mood that’s just not going away. He pushes his twitchy, petty anger way down and covers it up with action, nuzzling the top of his head up under Peter’s chin, stroking one hand down Peter’s chest and pulling Groot close so he knows where he is.

He finally gives in and sleeps then, comfortable at last with his favorite people curled close around him.


	30. Advice On Meditation, On Medical Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here she is, after two (totally unforgivable, I know) months. I have no excuse, but I do have reasons? If you hate me, sorry. If not, have a fic!  
> As always, constructive criticism is appreciated, as is feedback of any kind! If you spot any typos, feel free to let me know -- I did more editing with these parts than I normally do, but I'm sure there are still issues. :)

They reach Xandar without having to make any side-stops, but Peter’s been growing slowly more anxious as they approach. He’s keeping an eye on Rocket right now, even though he knows that he’s supposed to be meditating to balance his own emotional state before they reach the planet. Meditation is boring as hell, though, and there are about a thousand other things he could be doing that are both more fun and more productive than sitting around on his ass and trying not to fall asleep.

And his emotional state is perfectly _fine_ , goddammit!

Rocket looks up at him, one eyebrow to accompany the vague wash of curiosity from him. He turns so that he’s still mostly facing Groot, who’s apparently explaining the theory of neural transplants in standard mammalian biology, and Peter doesn’t doubt that he’s still listening to every word Groot says, but he’s also aware of a portion of Rocket’s attention on _him_. It makes him even twitchier.

“Shitow!” The three of them turn to watch as Blair trips down from the cockpit, catching himself against the bulkhead before he straightens to grin at the room at large. “Hey, guys! Thought I’d show Drax how to make Terran spaghetti, or as close as we can get here... Peter! You should definitely be meditating, man, you look terrible. No offense. Jim...? Yeah, Jim, why don’t you join him so he’s not all lonely?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll babysit, Sandburg. Go show Muscles how to do pasta magic.”

“I am Groot!” Groot says. “We are Groot?”

Peter still doesn’t get it. He’s been hoping he’d just pick up Groot-ese, but it hasn’t happened yet, and the translator thing just doesn’t seem that important in the scope of things. Context usually works well enough, anyway.

“Really?” Jim asks Groot as Blair and Drax head for the galley -- and Gamora, too, with a nod at Peter. Trusting people with his ship is still fuckin’ weird.

“Hey, Peter,” Rocket says and Peter startles. “Groot’s gonna meditate with us. Apparently that’s what they do to, heh, get back to their roots. Their ancestors didn’t move, had lots more time to think about things, so meditation is like remembering that, reenacting. Sit!”

Peter folds to the ground where he is and has to scoot on his butt over to where Rocket is sitting in a circle with Groot and Jim. They’ve left space for him, between Groot and Jim, probably because Peter and Rocket still don’t meditate in the same room much.

Peter closes his eyes and focuses on his breath. In and out, slower than time, until the itch on his right knee is overwhelming and he has to shift, until he can hear every weird little noise his body makes, until the flow of emotion around him is a wash of feelings shaded in new colors, until his heartbeat feels like a bird in his throat and it’s too fast, too fast for meditation, he has to slow it somehow...

“Breathe.” Groot’s hand smacks the back of Peter’s head as Jim speaks. When he opens his eyes a fraction, Jim is glaring at him through one half-open eye, and Rocket is standing right in front of him, arms crossed and glaring with his whole face. He plops back down, right there in front of him, closes his eyes and places his hands back on his knees to resume where he left off. Jim and Groot shift slightly, adjusting their circle so that their energies still focus on the same point or whatever, and Peter closes his eyes again.

He tries to relax into it, ignores the way his heart seems too fast and focuses on his breathing, on feeling the emotions of others pass him by without getting caught up in it, but he would swear he can feel the warmth of Rocket’s hands, so close to his own shins. He breathes, cracks one eye open to make sure no one is watching, judging him or what-the-hell-ever else his team might do while he’s out of it, and settles back into the meditation.

Rocket’s warm and close, but he’s not that much more difficult to ignore than Peter’s own stupidly-loud heartbeat. He accepts it, tells his brain “yeah, okay, he’s right there, it’s fine so you can move on” and then he’s mostly alone with his mind. Mostly, because he can still feel the emotions from the people around him. They might even be more obvious now that he’s basically mastered the physical distractions. Blair has suggested that it shouldn’t be too much different from separating from his own thoughts, just letting emotions pass him by, and it seems to be working, for the most part. Rocket is both very close to him physically and very, very emotionally interesting, calm and determined and a tiny bit nervous. Groot and Jim are also close, and Jim always feels kinda grumpy, but he’s in a good mood today and Groot is proud as punch and nearly giddy. He focuses on listening to Rocket’s emotions, even going so far as to try to focus on the _calm_ part. Rocket’s calm boosts his own, which is probably not allowed in the Sandburg Meditation Rules, but it helps him ignore the excitement Drax has worked up over hearing about Terran food, so he’s calling it a win.

He settles into the meditation until his mind is quiet and untroubled, and then he basks in that peace for a while. When he allows the world to filter back in, he realizes that he feels fuckin’ _excellent_ and maybe Blair had a point about the meditation thing. His eyes snap open and focus on the point of Rocket’s nose, only a few inches below and in front of his own. Jim is no longer sitting next to him, but Groot remains in meditation, so he allows himself a minute to watch Rocket. He listens for the emotions from the people around him -- serenity from Groot, and a little nostalgia. Rocket’s a little muddled, with the edge of fuzzy confusion that Peter thinks might precede a zone. He hasn’t been able to test it yet, only noticed the fuzzy feeling yesterday, but he reaches out with one hand now and settles it cautiously on Rocket’s knee.

It takes a second or ten, but the confusion settles out into a concentrated sense of peace, so Peter leaves his hand where it is. He closes his eyes and just sits and falls into a sort of half-assed meditation where he can still hear and think about whatever, but it’s pretty nice.

When Rocket inhales deeply, Peter opens his eyes. Rocket’s looking up at him like he’s done something strange and he glances at Peter’s hand nervously. Groot’s still out -- that little guy isn’t so little any more and his meditation techniques seem far more advanced than even those Blair uses -- so Peter allows himself to speak freely.

“Should I move?”

Rocket shook his head, and Peter nodded. They sat quietly, listening to the movement of their friends in the galley, until Groot finished his meditation with a loud yawn and the stretching of limbs.

*

“Nova Prime, we appreciate your assistance in this matter. Oh, hey! You can’t experiment on them, okay, but these guys have saved our asses and they’re helping us -- well, some of us -- get our shit together. Drax and Gamora already have their shit together. And Groot! Groot’s back!”

Jim, standing directly behind Peter, coughs.

“Right. This is Detective James Ellison of Terra. The Cascade Police Department of Cascade, Washington, in the United States of America, on Terra, specifically. And Doctor-Detective Blair Sandburg, also of the Cascade Police Department.” Blair insists that he doesn’t actually have a doctorate, but Rocket still doesn’t understand what that means and Rocket figures the title’s more about knowledge and respect than about whatever arbitrary standards their planet sets on honorifics.

“We are relieved to hear of the Guardian Groot’s recovery. We had hoped, when our planet became far more fruitful than before the Battle, but it seemed so impossible...” Nova Prime bows to Groot, who looks down at her and nods in return. That’s probably safest; he’s about half a foot taller than Drax now, but he hasn’t really re-mastered all his fine motor functions yet. “Welcome to you, Guardian Groot, and to your team. Welcome, guests from Terra. We are quite pleased to meet the first representatives of a people new to us. Even Guardian Quill has little knowledge of your contemporary customs.”

The team bows as one and then Nova Prime nods to one of her many attendees. She looks like most of the others Rocket’s seen attending Nova Prime, all weird hairstyles and serious discipline, but her undertunic is black and her collar has extra points. He doubts that he’ll really have to remember that, but it seems important to know who’s in charge here. “Secunda informs me that you have need of our medical and research facilities. Since she is most familiar with your particular requirements, she will be showing you to our medical complex. I do hope you enjoy your visit and find your answers, and please do not hesitate to contact me if I may be of assistance.”

“Thank you, Nova Prime,” Peter says and turns to the woman -- Secunda -- who he greets with a bow and a wide grin. “Hey, there, so my man Blair says we need neuroscanners, to start with.”

“Doctor-Detective Blair Sandburg has communicated your needs to me, Guardian Quill, and Xandar’s hospitality is not contingent upon your ceaseless flirting.”

Drax and Jim nearly bust a gut apiece laughing and Secunda turns to grin at Gamora, who quickly introduces her to the Terran “high-five.”

He’s fine until they get into the thick of the main building in the medical complex. It’s huge and noisy and it smells... Well, it smells like fancy-ass science and like blood and disinfectant and like the cleaner, nicer version of the only scientific facility he’s ever spent any length of time in. It smells like Half-World experiments.

He doesn’t say anything (he _knows_ he doesn’t, because talking during a procedure will get vital pieces removed from you and he flarking knows better by now, knows better than to open his mouth and ask for more trouble) but there’s a loud thump beside him like a body hitting the ground, and he re-focuses his eyes to find Peter cross-legged on the floor next to him. It’s flarkin’ weird because Rocket hadn’t even realized he’d stopped walking.

“Flashback?” Jim asks. Rocket appreciates the bluntness, sort of. He appreciates the way they’re all giving him space more.

“Not quite. Just. Bad, weird, smell. Gross.”

Jim hums and nods, then, as always, looks to Blair. _Data acquired,_ his eyes say, _so what do we do about it?_

Peter’s nervous sweat almost overpowers the smell of blood and disinfectant. Has the man never heard of a shower?

“I could carry you?” Rocket shakes his head quickly, half-stepping a little further into the protective curl of Groot’s shadow.

“Worse. Sorry. But, hey, your--”

“Your hat!” Blair yelps over Rocket’s barely-loud-enough-for-normal-ears voice. Peter shoots him a vaguely irritated-but-grateful look before he turns back to Rocket.

“My whatnow?”

“That’s what I was... Your hat? And then maybe you could carry me. Shouldn’t be necessary if the hat helps, though.”

Peter grins and pulls the hat -- lumpy and stretchy and the brightest shade of blue Rocket’s seen since... since ten seconds ago when he looked Peter in the eye. Quill hands the hat over without touching Rocket and Groot grumbles a little noise of approval. Rocket pulls the hat down over his ears and inhales the waft of Peter-sweat-engine grease-dandruff that comes with it. Peter holds out a hand and Rocket nods, reaching for it. He has to hold in a surprised, indignant screech when Peter sweeps him up against his shoulder, but he’s okay now, he’s fine without the smells overpowering him.

“This is flarkin’ ridiculous. How many lights do they need when the walls are all glass? It’s gotta be like gettin’ checked for scabies or some shit on the surface of the sun!” Peter chuckles at that, and the shake of his shoulders under Rocket’s hands doesn’t line up with the rhythm of his walk. It’s nice, like Peter’s doing him a favor, rather than carrying him somewhere that most of him really doesn’t want to go.

Rocket tugs the hat a little further down around his ears and thinks that Sandburg better know what he’s talking about, because trips to the medbay -- even the fanciest medbay in the galaxy -- flarkin’ suck.


	31. Kira's Sandwich Shop

“Alright,” Blair says, stepping away from the fancy-ass neural scanner and holding a hand out to help Rocket down from the padded table he’s sprawled on. Padding! He’ll admit that knowing that they’re concerned about his comfort goes a long way toward helping him feel more comfortable.

“That it, then?” he asks as he ducks behind a curtain to shuffle back into his jumpsuit, and he _knows_ that he sounds like a grumpy ol’ dragon, but it’s been a long couple of hours.

“Yep! We can hash all this out here or we can go find somewhere less... Medical to discuss what all this means. Doctor Finare says she’s basically committed to us today, so she can take off and come chill with us in a cute little cafe somewhere.”

Rocket pauses to look around at them and they’re all watching him (well, all but Gamora and Jim, who seem to be playing some sort of game involving hand gestures) as he counts all the things in his jumpsuit pockets. Gotta make sure it’s all still there, but they seem to be waiting for something.

“Oh. Me? Elsewhere, if we’re done.” Sandburg nods, like he’d expected that response, and Groot leans down to poke at his side. He offers a hand and Rocket clambers up his arm to sit on his shoulder, trying to think light-weight-ish thoughts. Groot may be d’ast tall, but Rocket can’t help but worry he might be too heavy for the thin limbs after such a quick growth spurt. Groot doesn’t complain about his presence, though, and follows Drax toward the exit. Settling into the sway of Groot’s gait, Rocket reaches up to make sure there aren’t any delicate twigs caught in his fur and encounters, instead of ears, fuzzy fabric. He’d forgotten about the hat, apparently, and he whips it off. He turns around and, sure enough, finds Quill following directly behind him and Groot.

“Hey,” he says and waves the floppy hat at Peter. He gestures as if to toss it to him, waiting for him to bring his hands up to catch, but Peter shakes his head and leaves his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

“Hang onto it,” he calls back, grinning up at Rocket and Rocket grins back as Groot ducks through the exit and he inhales a refreshing waft of bio-fuel and open air.

He tugs the hat back over his ears -- the warmth is pretty nice, even if it does kinda muffle his hearing -- and settles back into the curve of Groot’s shoulder.

When they all settle around the table at the cutest little bistro Rocket has ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on, Rocket scrambles down from Groot’s shoulder and takes up residence in his own chair. They’ve got two tables smushed together and are probably totally flarkin’ up the feng shoo-ay of the place, Blair says, but they also doubled the number of patrons in the house, and Rocket figures they’re gonna be buying enough food to feed an army, so maybe it balances out.

“You mentioned a chemical dependency, before. Let’s start with that,” Peter says, taking the seat across from Blair. They’ve sort of crammed into the cafe’s only corner booth and pushed a two-person table up next to it. They’re organized in some kind of order determined by knowledge of Rocket’s medical whatsits, investment in Rocket’s medical whatsits, and interest in the food. Those with knowledge and investment are closest to Doctor Finare, who is parked smack in the middle of the booth’s curved bench seat and those interested in food are furthest out. Rocket doesn’t really follow the whole seating process, but he knows that Blair and Peter are closest to the doc, with Jim and Drax next to them and Secunda, Gamora, and Groot all sitting furthest away. Rocket isn’t sure whether Groot’s on the far end because he’s hungry or just because he was slow to the table, but it means that Rocket finds himself perched in Peter’s lap because Peter doesn’t think he’ll appreciate having decisions made for him. (Rocket’s self-aware enough to know that decisions will probably still be made for him, but the semblance of self-determination does make him feel better.)

“Right, right.” Blair mutters, finally pulling himself away from color-coded readouts on a holoscreen. “Doctor, what do you think? I mentioned the possibility of a chemical element to the connection between them, and if that’s possible we want to begin research for solutions as soon as possible.”

The doctor takes a deep breath and sets her own holoscreen down next to her glass of iced caf-brew. “We will, of course, be in contact about the slower-acting tests, but there are signs of a chemical connection. I would not refer to it, as yet, as a ‘dependency.’ because the chemical does not seem to be activating the neuroreceptors generally affiliated with addiction. The chemical -- sorry, we don’t have a name for it yet -- even shows up the same way in our scans of Doctor-Detective Sandburg’s brain and of the Guardian Groot’s. It’s just a pheromone that the Guardian Quill produces, entirely harmless, but it is far more concentrated in the Guardian Rocket’s brain and bloodstream.”

“So it’s just... Hanging out in there?”

“Basically, yes. If we... Hold on, let me find the dopamine scans.” The doctor flips through charts and tables with a speed that nearly makes Rocket dizzy before she stops on a particular picture of what is, he presumes, his brain. “I believe the chemical may be activating the dopamine gland, like chocolate does in humans. Not a lot, not enough to be a noticeable spike like a drug would, but enough that when it’s gone, you probably feel a little less good, yes?” He nods and she goes on about the science of attraction and about how this response is very similar and all his laundry is hung out to dry, complete with a chart detailing the increased adrenaline in his system when Peter is nearby. He wants out, wants away, but he’s boxed into this little space between the bulk of Peter’s sweater and the hard edge of the table. All he can do is pull his stupid Peter-smelling hat down over his eyes and turn his face into the stupid Peter-smelling collar of Peter’s stupid sweater.

“-ey, there, come on, I know you’re in there. Come on back. I’m gonna borrow your hat if you don’t talk to me, man.” Rocket drags his eyes open to stare at the sunlight poking through the tight weave of the hat over his eyes. “Can’t even see if you’re awake under there, but I can hear how hard you’re thinking. Calm down, it’s all gonna be fine,” Peter says, and they’re outside the cafe-restauraunt-thing that calls itself a bistro. Peter’s carrying him, rocking him a little as he paces the walkway and Rocket hasn’t had much contact with kids since.. Yeah, since Halfworld, but he knows the rock-and-walk thing and that is just _not on_. He scrambles down, half-leaping out of Peter’s arms to land on his feet. Ow, shit. He whips the hat off his head and stuffs it in a pocket -- he can’t actually get rid of it, but he doesn’t want it on his ears, like Peter’s still holding him close and treating him like a helpless thing.

“Not a fuckin’ baby, Quill. ’M fine.” He stalks across the sidewalk, only realizing a few seconds later that he’s recreating the path Peter had followed from one side of the walkway to the other. He flops down on his butt in a fit of pique and glares up at Quill, who’s standing where Rocket had leapt away from him. His arms are still sort-of stretched out, curled awkwardly like he’s still trying to catch Rocket before he hits the ground, but he’s staring at his hands like they’ve betrayed him.

“Sorry, I--” Peter starts and cuts himself off as his hands tuck back into his pockets. “I should have. Groot, I mean. Should have let Groot. Go with you. Sit with you. Sorry.” It’s been a while since Rocket has heard Quill this uncertain. The last few days have been made up entirely of confident-and-knowledgeable-Quill. Rocket feels a little bad about flipping his shit on the guy, especially when all he’s done is be helpful. He huffs and looks away from Peter’s gaze, but he pulls the hat out of his pocket and holds it out. It’s as close to a peace offering as they’re going to get today.

Peter sits down, not close enough to bump knees or anything, but close enough to accept the hat out of Rocket’s hands. “Was it the carrying? Or the talking? ’Cause man, I didn’t mean to piss you off, okay. You zoned, and I thought I could help. Just thought I could help...” He trails off and Rocket still doesn’t look at him but he listens to the uptick in his heartbeat, hears the way his breathing catches in his throat and thinks curses at himself for being a stubborn bastard who ruins everything he touches.

“You did,” Rocket finally says, gruff and too loud, after Peter’s gotten his breathing under control (only because he stopped breathing for a while, which may have freaked Rocket out more than a little). He’s nearly whispering when he speaks again. “It helped. I shouldn’t have overreacted. I just... There was rocking, and you don’t... I don’t want you guys to think I’m some sort of... whatever who needs help all the time. I’m a fierce gorram warrior, you got that? The kinda criminal they write ballads about in lockups. A fuckin’ legend, yeah?”

Peter chokes out a suspiciously watery laugh and Rocket wonders if his emotional-eavesdropping ever gives him weird mood swings. “Yeah,” Peter says. “Very scary. Also saved the galaxy a few times. Don’t have to tell me you’re not helpless. I’d like to help, though, when I can.”

Rocket coughs and nods. He knows his friends aren’t complete dicks, at least. Well, most of them. The jury’s still out on Gamora ‘cause she’s still hiding some of his favorite fuses.

“I was hoping we could wait, have this conversation after we get our stuff sorted out, but. I’m just gonna go ahead and tell you. No pressure, okay, but I like you. Kind of a lot. In the be-my-first-mate-and-sail-the-galaxy-forever kind of way. Or something.” Rocket’s listening, still, and Peter’s heartbeat speeds up again, fast enough that it nearly matches Rocket’s own and Rocket’s sure that can’t be healthy. He turns to look at him and Peter is watching him, head down like he’s staring at the hat in his hands, but his eyes meet Rocket’s and neither of them seem are capable of looking away.

The creak of the door to the restaurant almost makes Rocket glance away, but he recognizes Gamora’s footsteps and she can just flark the flark off until he can figure out just what--

“JUST KISS HIM ALREADY!” and then the door swings shut again.

Peter jumps and grabs for Rocket’s shoulders for balance. Rocket’s not sure whether Peter’s actually following Gamora’s suggestion or their mouth have just kind of fallen together, but their lips meet -- or well, Rocket’s mouth isn’t exactly meant for kissin’, so there’re lips and teeth and maybe a little bit of tongue before he’s pushing away on Peter’s chest because one of their hearts is definitely going to give out here in a minute.

Peter’s still holding onto his shoulders, but he allows Rocket to shove them apart, watches his face and, probably, monitors his brain for some sort of clue. Rocket’s not any more sure of where they stand, but he grins with as much false confidence as he can muster and ducks back in. He presses their mouths together softly, trying to maintain contact without being too aggressive, and Peter allows it, breathes against him and strokes his hands down Rocket’s upper arms. When Peter pulls away again, he takes one hand off Rocket’s shoulder to pick up the hat that’s fallen between them. He offers it to Rocket, and Rocket pulls it over his ears with a grin. He shoots a glance back at the restaurant behind him. Their whole team, plus the doctor and Secunda and what looks like a pretty large portion of the cafe’s other patrons are lined up along the big plate-glass window, watching them. He looks away quickly before he stands up and offers a hand down to Peter. He’s pretty grateful that Peter doesn’t actually need any serious help up, because that’s a physics problem he can’t be bothered with right now, but when Peter’s upright, he takes a step back.

“The carrying thing. It’s okay? If you’re okay with it. Pretty nice, actually, even though you’re not as tall as Groot.” The grin Peter gives him could light the whole capitol of Xandar as he offers his hands down for Rocket. He reaches up, and Peter lifts him to sit in the crook of his elbow.

“Try to warn me next time, though! All jumpin’ off me like I’m on fire or something.” Rocket nods, and gives the door a half-assed shove as they re-enter the restaurant. Gamora’s back in her seat at their table, inspecting her nails like she’d never moved from that spot. The minute the door closes behind them, though, the room bursts into applause and scattered whistling. Peter grins and bops a showy kiss against the end of Rocket’s nose as he walks the length of the room to stop before their table. He sets Rocket onto his feet so that he can bow theatrically to the room at large.

“Whoo, take another bow!” a voice from Rocket’s right calls, and Rocket turns to glare at the oldest pair of butt-oogling Xandarians he’s ever seen. The one who isn’t whistling gives him a wink and a thumbs-up and he can’t stay mad at people who are happy for him. He has to grin back.

*

They spend two hours in the little bistro discussing the possible implications of Rocket’s scans. There are a few of Peter’s brain, too, and a couple of control scans of Drax’s brain and Blair’s. They spread them all out on the table with every holoscreen they have with them, but the only significant differences anyone can find in Rocket’s brain is the physical scarring, and since the consensus is that there don’t appear to be any pieces missing, they’re not really any closer to an answer there. Rocket hates to admit to trusting his life to some mystic, but if the Syllogist just happens to have answers for him... Well, he won’t complain about that, for sure.


	32. The Syllogist

“Greetings, Blair Sandburg, Blair Sandburg’s companion, Guardians. The Syllogist is expecting you. She will see you as a group, but she asks that you speak softly and allow her time with each of you as requested. If any of you would prefer to wait outside, she will understand, but she _is_ a great historian and would appreciate the chance to learn of the criminals who became heroes and the Terrans who visit them.” The man bows to them and gestures toward the curtain behind him.

Peter’s expecting something kind of like the Collector’s lair, with artefacts everywhere and a general sense of clutter behind the curtain. He’s just tuning into Rocket’s nervousness and wondering if he can help somehow before they take this on. Rocket’s anxiety is pushed aside by a brief flash of a room through a curtain of beads on strings and catches the sense-memory of some kind of strong-burning-smoke-perfume smell that seems to clear out his sinuses before he realizes that it wasn’t real, that he’s still standing where he was a moment ago. The image was staggeringly real, and Peter reaches out for Rocket’s emotional aura again to balance himself. Peter clings to the feel of the familiar mind, to the wash of worry for him -- he’s apparently looking pretty crappy -- and the anger brought to the surface by this whole mess and a _hey, hey, you okay in there, need to sit him down, heartbeat’s off the charts; Blair said that--_ and then Peter’s reeling back, sinking to his knees there in the foyer of the Syllogist’s receiving room. His eyes are clenched tight and he reaches for Rocket, reaches for Groot or Gamora or anyone who can make sure they aren’t abducted by bounty hunters while Peter can’t pay attention. He holds Rocket close and breathes him in and tries to drown out his own crazy with the smell of engine grease and something that smacks of fruit juice and toothpaste and the leather of Rocket’s jumpsuit and the feel of someone’s hand -- Drax’s, maybe -- on his shuolder.

Rocket’s humming. Peter hadn’t even realized Rocket was the type of person to hum at all, but...

“Hey, Blair,” he says without removing his face from between Rocket’s ears.

“Yeah, hey, what’s up, man?”

“What the flark is a piña colada?” Rocket gives a rusty, grating chuckle like he’d forgotten how to laugh and Peter pulls away to look at Blairwaiting for an answer. The guy seems to be completely flummoxed, but Peter’s too distracted to chase a real answer.

“So I can apparently hear thoughts now, not just emotions,” he says, sticking his face back between Rocket’s ears. “Ever seen a curtain made entirely out of beads? ’Cause I sure haven’t.” His voice is kinda muffled, but he doesn’t care. Kind of having a crisis, here.

“Shit,” Blair says and Peter thinks that about sums it up.

*

The Syllogist seems both older and younger than Rocket had expected. She proves that she’s as agile as Gamora when she stands fluidly from a kneeling position in the middle of a spare, well-lit room. Her eyes are bright, but her hair is a silvery gray, cut short and fluffy. Her skin is a deep brown and her arms are nearly covered with silvery, shifting tattoos -- well, Rocket’s assuming they’re tattoos, but for all he knows they could be birth marks or the souls of evildoers or something -- and she moves around the room constantly, circling them with a scrutinizing eye that makes even Blair a little shifty. Peter’s got Rocket perched on his forearm, and the both of them are strung out as tight as live-wire. Groot is totally calm, though, and it’s him that she greets first.

“Greetings, Brother Groot.” She bows then, her hands tucked behind her back, dipping her head low before she faces him.

 _It has been a long time since I met a being as distinguished as yourself_ , he returns under the standard rumble of “I am Groot. He takes a short step backward before bowing to her in return, just as deeply and with his hands folded behind him.

“And it has been too long since I met with one of your own people. I have heard that your home planet is quite impressed by your efforts, young Hwarrnghi.” Rocket tenses at the sound that comes from the woman, which is not unlike a breaking branch, and Peter half-jumps at the noise, before he seems to remember that he’s also responsible for Rocket’s balance and stills.

“Now, I will be quite happy to visit with the Guardian Groot and the rest of you as well, but I hear that one of you has run into a few problems that I might be able to help with, yes?” She strides swiftly between Jim and Drax, easily dodging their subtle moves toward interception, and stops directly in front of Peter, staring up at him with a gaze that might actually burn him, before her focus shifts to Rocket.

“You are him, yes? You have the answers to your friend’s problems, and he the answers to yours, but you seek guidance on that path, explanation. Who are you, Guardian? What has happened to you that you follow men you’ve only just met into places you swore you would never again approach?” Rocket opens his mouth, because this woman should not know things that he’s only just realized himself, but she turns to Blair before he can speak. “You have guided them this far, have you not? I thank you, both for the information and for your guidance. We may be able to right a great wrong today, though I regret that I have never managed to amend this on my own.”

She turns back to Rocket, who’s still perched in the crook of Peter’s elbow with his mouth gaping open. “We have much to discuss, you and I. I would speak with you alone, that you may consider any information without social pressures, and then I will speak with your companion.”

Peter’s breathing evens into a slow, steady draw that Rocket knows must be deliberate. He flashes Peter a grin full of teeth that shifts his whiskers up to brush against Peter’s chin, and he thinks positive-confident-happy-calm thoughts as hard as he can. Then he straightens up, lifts his nose into the air, and points one finger toward the ground.

“Down, Quillmobile.”

“Yes, my liege!” Peter laughs as he settles Rocket on his feet.

Rocket whacks one hand against Peter’s thigh before he turns and follows the Syllogist through another curtained door.


	33. Questions and Answers (Not Necessarily In That Order)

Rocket settled a little deeper into his chair. All the furniture in the room was set very close to the ground, so he was sure the height of the chair was not for his own comfort, but it was definitely an interesting experience.

The Syllogist settled down across from him and pulled a holoscreen out of a pile of various data-collecting devices and actual, physical paper. She stared quietly for a moment, and Rocket could see the moment when she made a decision.

“The ones who altered you did not do so out of scientific curiosity,” she said. “I grant that a scientific motive would make your suffering no less significant, but... As it is, your modifications are largely nonsensical. I should not reveal this to you, but I am the keeper of the last records left of the Halfworld. The experimental procedures were recorded, and I believe that the majority of your own record remains intact. I will not go into details, of course, but--”

“Of course?!” The Syllogist doesn’t even startle, but she does give him a disapproving look. He tones his voice back down, maintains his calm. “Why not?”

“I do not believe that you should re-live that time any more than is absolutely necessary. I am perfectly capable of interpreting pseudo-scientific documents. As I was saying, the robots reached a point where they were no longer concerned for the well-being of their assigned patients or their victims. The documents do not cite the sources for their inspiration, but the original founders of the planet stocked it with an extensive library. I believe that they were drawing inspiration from science-fiction books from Terra and, as an exception, from a copy of Burton’s account of Terran sentinels.” She reached one frail-looking hand out to her pile of data again. She pulled a book out of the middle and set it down on the low table between them.

The book itself isn’t familiar, but Blair has talked about Burton’s theories enough that the name has stuck in Rocket’s mind like a particularly thorn. He doesn’t reach toward the book, just looks back up at the Syllogist and waits for her to continue.

“You must stay with him,” she says. “There is a chemical component, but that is actually helpful. They intended... Well, they never intended for you to escape, but they certainly never expected that you would encounter a Watcher, and I suspect that making your mind compatible with theirs was intended as a cruel joke. That may be what saves you, however. Without a connection to him, you would find yourself incapable of survival in the long-term.” She pulls a particular scan up on her holoscreen and extracts a few sheets of paper from the top of the pile beside them. She lays them out across the table and Rocket takes a good look at them. They’re all of brains, it looks like. The one on the holo is from their scans on Xandar, but the others are of a brain that looks different, a little less wrinkly in one, with less of the brain highlighted in another. The scans are marked only with a long string of numbers and the date of the scan.

“These are mine. Me. What’s happened since then?” He looks up at her with a snarl on his face, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Long-term effects. You were never meant to live even this long; they expected you would go mad just like the rest of them. They estimated you would survive for about two months after these scans were taken.” She taps a long, thin finger on one of the paper scans. “You’ve been learning, growing, but your abilities have also been manifesting. All the highlighted parts have expanded because you’re using your brain more, to process data or filter it out. Your friend has been helping with this, though I doubt that he is aware. His people were once very skilled mind-healers, when they allowed themselves to be, and he seems to have an instinct for this sort of thing.”

“Yeah, I noticed the difference. Didn’t realize it was that big a deal.” He’s staring at the scans, at his scars mapped out in holos and ink.

“The pressure of so many changes to your neural system, combined with the constant inflow of information your mind was never meant to handle, has ut great strain on your brain. I cannot, without consent, reveal details to you about your team’s abilities, but I assure you that they will be well-equipped to assist you, with a bit of training.” She smiles at him, and she looks like the kindest person in the universe, not like someone who could have kicked their entire team into next week.

“So this thing, where being near Quill helps, it’ll go away?”

She looks a little conflicted at that, but when she speaks she doesn’t stink of lies. “No. I suppose that it may lessen, but the kind of surgery to correct the attachment to Guardian Quill’s mind would be as damaging as the initial change was. Your brain has been modified to resemble that of a Watcher, but with none of a Watcher’s natural defenses or the ability to connect to minds to ground yourself.”

He nods. He figured it wouldn’t be as easy as popping a pill and walking away. As long as no one else knows, though, they’ll all be free enough to go their separate ways if they need to. “But I was fine, nearly two years without him!”

She doesn’t blink at his outburst. She expected that. “Yes. But your senses are fully online now, and while the Groot must certainly be a calming influence, he is incapable of healing minds made of flesh and blood. He can only work with the physical. Your Guardian Quill can help you from the inside, and your brain will welcome the assistance.”

“And you’ve been a neorosurgeon for how long, exactly?” he snarls, not even bothering to be polite any longer.

“Two-hundred-thirty-seven years. And two days.” He huffs, but doesn’t interrupt her. “There are methods to connect your minds, to ease the need for constant physical contact, that I will speak to you and your companion about. I would like to speak with him about his abilities before we speak again as a group.”

He takes that as an indication that she’s done with him, and stands. She watches him with a shrewd eye as he exits and by the time he seats himself next to Groot, he’s twitchy like a live wire.

“She said she wanted to see you next,” Rocket says to Quill as he settles into a meditative pose next to Groot and closes his eyes.

 _How’d it go?_ Groot asks. _What did she say?_

“Same ol’ bullshit,” he replies, wary of his team’s presence. He cracks one eye open to give Groot a look. “Had actual information, pulled from the Halfworld. No answers, though. I’m fucked up, nothing to be done, et cetera. Meditate and shit.”

Groot grumbles. _I don’t like it when you lie to us._

“Long as you keep it to yourself,” he grunts back and closes his eye again. He might as well meditate and hope it actually might help him deal.

*

“Then this process, mental bond, whatever. It’ll help him?”

She nods. “And you. You find yourself lost among the emotions, yes? That will only grow worse as you learn to pick up strong thoughts, as well. You need an anchor, and the Watchers have always had mental connections to family and friends.”

“Okay,” he says, and there’s no decision required. They’ll bond, simple as that.

“I should not have told you this, truly, but I am concerned that he will tell no one. The Watchers, before they went into exile, knew everyone’s business, so I am simply... maintaining an old tradition. You are not to make his decisions for him, but I will give you the information you require to ensure that he can freely choose.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, and he follows her back to the main room to talk with his friends.


	34. Gone

Rocket’s gone. They’re docked on Xandar to discuss the Syllogist’s insight with Nova Prime -- a condition of her assistance was that she be kept in the know -- and Rocket has taken off.

He’d been with them to greet Nova Prime and for the initial meetings with her and her people, but at some point during lunch, he’d run off to the Milano and packed up his favorite gun. He’d taken Groot, left a note ( _ _After a bounty, thanks for all the help. -R__ )and now Peter’s regretting not attempting the mind-bond thing immediately. That has to be what this is. Rocket’s probably worried about tying Peter down -- or maybe being tied down to a boring ol’ humie.

Blair’s reading one of the books the Syllogist about Watchers that the Syllogist had given them, even as he grounds Jim. Jim, in turn, is listening for Groot and Rocket. Drax and Gamora are shutting down the ports so Rocket can’t steal a ship and leave the planet or some shit.

 _ _(It’s his choice__ , part of Peter thinks, but fuck that noise, okay. They haven’t even discussed the possibility since they left the Syllogist. Peter wants to speak with a real mind-healer before he tries something this complicated and focused, but damn it if Rocket didn’t even give them a chance to think this through.)

He’s listening for them, though. He and Jim are in remarkably similar positions, seated on the sidewalk outside the Milano’s bay -- they’ve actually docked it, instead of crashing it any old place -- and Peter’s reaching out as far as his mind will let him, but all he can hear is the dull roar of anxiety-happiness-greed-lust-content from the planet’s day-to-day inhabitants. No soul-deep anger, no Rocket-colored emotions to speak of.

“Jim?” Peter asks, eyes snapping open.

“Nothing. He’s quiet, can’t find him. Maybe we could track him, if we can move. Can sorta still smell Groot. Blair?”

“Yeah, coming. Got some things we need Pete to try, too. You’re about to get a crash-course in telepathy as interpreted by a psy-null human, man.” Blair thumps the book shut and shoves into a bag against his hip. “Lead the way, Jimbo.”

Jim closes his eyes and inhales. He leads the way off down the docks, southward.

Blair trots a little to catch up with him, but immediately starts talking to Peter.

“Alright, don’t close your eyes, but you’re gonna try to do some walking meditation. I think you should be able to reach further in a meditative state, but if Jim can get us closer, that’ll help.”

Peter slows his steps, lengthens his stride, and does his best to match his breathing with the rhythm, and listens for familiar minds.

*

 _ _This was a positively horrendous idea__ , Groot thinks as he follows Rocket through the substructure of the city, leaving trails of rhododendrons behind them whenever Rocket isn’t looking.

*

Rocket doesn’t even last long enough to get them to a safe place. By the time they’ve left the docks, he’s had to shut down his senses as much as possible. They’ve trekked into the city’s underground tunnels before he realizes he’s having to ignore the way the scant light flares across his vision. The people that live and work down here are __loud__ , but they go still when they see Groot and Rocket passing. No one moves until they’re out of sight, but Rocket can hear the rumble of talk about them that stirs up in their wake. It’s deafening. He just wanted to go, he’d just needed to be independent before he let the bright world take him out, because he won’t be the cause of more grief for his team. Groot will go back to them once Rocket’s no longer any use, but Rocket’s glad that he’s with him now.

He finds an empty cubby in the tunnel wall and curls up in it. He needs to regroup, meditate, find that part of him that functioned before he met the Guardians. Groot sits down outside his little hidey-hole and grumbles some support.

He grunts an acknowledgment, and tries to dial his senses back, but they just won’t __stay__ quiet.

*

There are flowers everywhere. They’re not cut flowers; their stems just end in a string of clean root, like they’ve been grown in a vacuum. It’s Groot’s handiwork, and Peter listens all the harder. They reach a fork in the tunnel -- there are four branches off their current path, with no more flowers in sight.

“I can’t... too many people, too close. You got anything, Quill? Because I’m having a hell of a time catching a scent.”

“They’re that way.” He points down the tunnel to the far right. It’s dark and cluttered with what looks like a troupe of street performers, but he can hear a faint wash of Groot’s emotions from that direction. Thoughts. Something Groot-ish, anyway. Turns out Groot-emotions aren’t all tied up in tree-noises, thank the universe.

 _ _Loud-obnoxious-happy-flowers-happy-happy-easy-to-find-loud-happy-despair-nope-definitelyhope-hope-happy__. About as stereotypically Groot as Peter’s ever heard, and Groot must be really concerned if he’s willing to project the way he is. __Happy clouds and sad Rockets, lost Rockets, quiet Rockets, no, happy clouds and floating flowers.__

Peter wishes he could reassure him that they’re on their way, but all he can do for now is try to push a little calm in Groot’s direction. He doesn’t wait to find out if it helped, just leads the way toward his friends.


	35. Bonds Forged

When Rocket regains consciousness, it is to the sound of Peter Quill bitching him out. He doesn’t know what for, can’t really focus close enough to hear real words, but it’s definitely a lecture.

“Shuddup, Quill. I’m sleepin’,” he says, though it sounds a little more like a wordless mumble. He wonders where they are; it doesn’t smell like the Milano, but it’s definitely not a hospital, either. Industrial cleaners, but no anesthetic-smell.

“Don’t you tell me to shuddup, you little punk. I’ll shuddup when I’m good and ready, and that won’t be ’til I’m convinced you aren’t gonna try to run out on me again, you d’ast lugnut!”

Rocket finally blinks his eyes open to glare at Quill, but Groot is between them, leaning close over Rocket’s face. It’s a hotel room, or something. Full of people and with fancy furninshings. He’s on his back on a couch that’s probably bigger than the entire Milano.

“W’happened?” he asks Groot.

“You are Groot,” he says reproachfully. _You were stupid. Decided you would leave our friends, your Guide. He had to come find us because you got us lost and fainted in the sewer system._

Flarkin’ great. He puts both hands on Groot’s face and shoves him back a little

“Okay, fine, sorry. Get back now, you overgrown weed.”

“Did he tell you you’re a stupid fool?” Peter asks, and Rocket nods. “Well, I’m not done with you, but we have things to do. Not gonna let you try to run out again. Blair, think I’m ready to do the bond-thing?”

“Hell, yeah, man! The Aedians were impressed by your scores, so I think you’ve definitely got it! But I do think that going in stages would be best -- that way you can test each time, just make sure it’s all working properly so we don’t have to figure out how to adjust or undo anything.” Peter grins his thanks over his shoulder and Drax and Jim stand. Rocket hadn’t even noticed them sitting across the room on the bed, but they just gather up their poker chips and follow Blair out.

“Hey,” Gamora pops her head through the door that Jim has just vacated. “Brought food. Shall we bring some, or will you be joining us in the _adjoining common area_?” She pronounces “adjoining common area” with an extra breathiness to it that Rocket recognizes as an imitation of the accent of some of Xandar’s more tradition-oriented citizens.

“Uh... Are those sandwiches? They smell great. You are a wonderful person,” Rocket says, and Groot stands, ducking his head and crouching to exit the bedroom.

“No, I’m not,” Gamora says as she accepts a plate from Groot. “Groot is. I was going to make you get your own d’ast sandwiches.”

“Well, thank you for allowing Groot to be nice to us, then,” Peter cuts in before the bickering can begin.

“Alright. Bye, now.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says as he shuts the door. _Have good sex!_

“What?! I don’t--! Stop that!” Rocket shouts back, and he can feel his face getting all hot and his whiskers twitching.

“What’d he say?” Peter asks, setting the plate of sandwiches on the little table by the couch.

“Nothing. Just bein’ a dumb tree. Peter sits down as Rocket shuffles his own way into a sitting position. “So you really think we’re doing this, huh?”

“Yup. Objections?”

“Lots of them.”

“Tell me.”

“Where do I fuckin’ start, Quill? First, there’s this whole thing. I’m not planning to stick around. You’re not planning to stick around. Isn’t feasible. And who even knows if it’ll work. You don’t want access to my brain. Neither of us are exactly team players.” He snags a sandwich off the plate and stares at it. “Just a bad idea.”

“Really, that’s all you’ve got? I was kinda expecting ‘because I hate your face,’ really. Alright. I think you’ve already proved you don’t have much choice about sticking around. I get it, if you don’t wanna stay with us, but you can’t leave until we’ve done all we can to balance you out, ’kay. And I’m definitely not going anywhere without you. You guys are my friends, Rocket. We’ll figure it out. And seriously, you can’t give up on a cure or a coping mechanism or whatever without even trying it! That’s dumb. And dude, I thought I’d already proved that I _do_ want access to your brain, over and over again when I used you as an anchor. And -- jeez, Rocket, did you think about any of these, because counterarguments aren’t even difficult -- we’ve been playing as a team for nearly a month now. Anything else?”

“Uh...”

“And, okay, for any other arguments you come up with: I _like_ you. I kissed you in front of a restaurant and our team and everybody! If you want to, we can make this work. Can we try? For my sake? I need an anchor, too, you know. It’s in my genes or something.”

Rocket sighs. There’s no way out of it, but he’s pretty sure that right now, he wouldn’t take a way out even if he could find one.

“Let’s do it.”

“Awesome!”

“But. Um. How?”

*

The actual linking process isn’t as difficult as all the literature and advice had made it out to be. Peter had practiced, reached out for his teammates’ minds as if he were going to try to create a bond, so reaching out with a part of his mind, and kind of pushing up against Rocket’s until they merge isn’t hard. It’s considered temporary for now, meant for short-term communications or monitoring someone with damaged or incompatible speech processes. Once he’s got that thread strung from his mind to Rocket’s, he just has to build it up, He reaches across again, creating another link between them. He digs up a couple memories, recent ones of Rocket, and offers them to Rocket, pushing them down the widening link. Rocket accepts them, watches through Peter’s eyes as he points a blaster at Peter and as he grins at Peter between kisses outside a little Xandarian bistro. When Rocket’s finished with them, Peter helps him tuck the memories -- or the idea of the memories, whichever, Peter doesn’t really have time for correct psychological terminology -- around the idea of the bond to support it. Rocket offers a pair of memories, too, of Peter talking him down in the bar on Knowhere, of Peter, unashamed, bowing to the crowd of onlookers in the bistro. Those, too, are placed around the bond as protection, to anchor the bond to a part of each of them, and Peter begins to back out of Rocket’s mind, monitoring the connection. Peter blinks his eyes open and looks down at Rocket, trying to gauge where they stand.

_Well, that was... Interesting. Weird, but not bad._

“Good,” Peter says, and grins when Rocket’s eyes widen. “Yeah, apparently it’s a lot easier to hear you now. You think kinda loud. There are ways to hide things, if you want, but I’m dunno how to explain them, if you’re okay with waiting ‘til we can ask someone.”

“Yeah, ‘s fine,” Rocket says, and then he reaches out to poke at Peter’s forehead. “So was that a one-time thing, or can you come hang out in my head whenever? It was pretty cool.”

Peter reaches for him, drags Rocket into his lap and presses their foreheads together. He reaches for Rocket’s mind and Rocket shifts until he can shove their mouths into alignment, all hot-wet closeness with too many teeth in too many places as Peter lets their minds click together again, shifting from connected-but-separate entities into one, peterandrocket, rocketandpeter, until there’s only the difference of memories from a Peter-perspective and a Rocket-perspective to distinguish where one of them should end and the other begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Have good sex!" is a reference to Firefly, btw. Uhh... episode... "Jaynestown" :)


	36. Treasure Hunt

“So,” Peter says as he and Rocket return to the adjoining room after they’ve showered. “What’s the plan? I think this mess is about as sorted as it’s ever gonna get, so thank you for that.” He looks expectantly at Blair, who’s sprawled out on his back on the floor, apparently counting Groot’s leaves. He glances to Jim when Blair holds up a “hang on, I’m busy” hand. After all that mental exercise -- Rocket chuckles audibly at that thought, and Peter pretends not to hear it -- Peter’s shields are still weak, so he can hear how hard Blair is concentrating on the leaf-counting. Scientists are weird.

“Eh, I dunno. Guess we’d better head home, or try to, now that we’ve saved the guardians of the universe and all,” Jim says with a shrug and he’s at least a little sorry about having to leave.

“Aw, you’re not gonna join us?” Peter shifts gears, ignoring the hell out of everyone’s mental chatter, because it’s really, _really_ loud right now. “Go on intergalactic adventures, join the ranks of the warp-capable?”

“Nah,” Blair says as he rolls over onto his belly to look at Peter. “Jim’s too straight-laced to be a space pirate!” Jim throws him a dirty look and Peter hears Rocket think _What’s so funny about space pirates?_ , in his not-amused voice. _Dunno_ , Peter replies. _Must be a Terran thing_.

“To Terra, then?” Gamora asks, completely done with their nonsense. “I’ll lay in a course,” she says, and leaves the hotel before anyone can change their minds. Drax immediately steps over to the hotel’s comm unit and places a call to Nova Prime’s office to inform her of their imminent departure.

“One problem,” Rocket says, wandering over to Groot and climbing up onto his shoulder. Everyone else is shifting, packing up the little that they brought with them from the Milano, and when they finish, Peter leads his friends down to the front desk like a string of baby ducks. The image bleeds through to Rocket and he wants to know what they are, from where, why are they so fuzzy. Peter tucks all his questions about Rocket’s past as deep within his subconscious as he can. They can’t talk about that now.

“I know humies are dumb,” Rocket says, undeterred by all the ducking Groot has to do to get through the hotel’s doorways and totally interrupting Peter’s explanation of water fowl. “But they’re pre-warp, right? Are they gonna shoot us down if we go flying in there?”

Peter scoffs, but Jim nods and Blair drags a holoscreen out of a backpack, four steps ahead, as always. They all squint in the bright Xandarian sunlight, but the hotel isn’t far from the space docks.

“Invisibility, cloaking, does it exist? Talk to me about stealth tech, Quill,” Jim says as they tromp up the ladder and disperse into the Milano, and Blair holds the ’screen out wordlessly toward him.

Rocket pulls up the big message boards on the Milano’s main interface, scrambling down from Groot’s shoulder and dragging a stool from the galley to stand on.

Peter goes to lean over Jim’s shoulder. Blair has found an overview of the Andromeda Galaxy’s known stealth technology. The list is depressingly short; this galaxy is known for weapons tech, not subtle things like this, so it’s limited to a few half-assed attempts at deep-space camoflage and this one guy with a hat that makes a person -- a person standing two parsecs from the wearer -- kinda fuzzy and blurry. 

“Too bad the Collector’s toast, ‘cause he’d probably have something we could... kill him for. Sorry, Jim.” Rocket’s trying to be considerate of the humans’ low tolerance for violent crime. It’s nice of him.

 _’M not nice, Quill_ , Rocket thinks at him.

“I am Groot,” Groot says, pointing at the screen, and Peter straightens and focuses on them.

“Hey, Quill, we said stealth, right? It’s not exactly invisibility, per se. Well, semantics. It’s supposed to replicate and project the image on the far side of... Flark it, it’s cloaking tech. Holograms and signal-scrubbing and all. But there’s this ship, on one of the historical sites. It’s only a rumor, almost a legend. But if we can’t find it, it doesn’t exist, right? We’re like something out of a storybook.”

“Where was it built?” he says, studying the crude sketches on the viewscreen. “Where has anyone not looked?”

Rocket starts a list, with the others chiming in here and there, though they’ll have to ask Gamora what she thinks once she comes off the navigation shift. 

Their list, once complete, includes everyplace from Knowhere itself to open space to museums. It’s a long list, and Peter will admit that it’s kinda daunting.

“Where do we start, then?”

Jim and Blair have basically bowed out of the conversation, though Peter knows that Jim is still poring over a holoscreen in an attempt to formulate an alternate plan. It’s a wash of _frustration-worry-guilt_ from him, so he’s trying to tune him out with Rocket’s bright determination.

“Nearby. Maybe we’ll stumble across something else... The fools who picked them up have to have had something.”

“I will place a call to the Correlian law offices. We should have considered this before,” Drax points out, but Peter can hear that when he says “we” he’s just going for a team-spirit thing, not blaming any of them.

They stroll casually through a couple of tiny local museums (Peter nearly has to guilt Rocket into not stealing a “really flarkin’ zingy” flintlock blaster from the art museum, but when the tour guide tells them it’s only a model and doesn’t fire, Rocket huffs and gives up) and then through a couple parsecs of asteroid field.

When they find it, it’s a miracle. If they hadn’t... Well, okay, if _Peter_ hadn’t _accidentally_ stuffed a small explosive into the artificial-gravity access cabinet, they wouldn’t have stopped off at the scrapyard. (It was a fuckin’ _unlabeled_ explosive, alright, and he’d never had any problems storing shit in that cabinet. When the explosive had gone off, there was a lot of bouncing off the walls and a lot more yelling.) He and Rocket were still fuming silently at one another when they’d all split up to hunt for a stand-in grav control panel.

 _HOLY FLARK I FOUND IT!_ Peter hears in his head just as he ducks into the shell of a burnt-out delivery skimmer. He tries to stand straight up, and his head bashes into the low ceiling supports.

_Rocket, would you not--?_

_I need Gamora! Is she with you?!_

Peter mentally prods at him, more than a little miffed. Seriously, it’s _his_ ship, he will damn well be the one to know if the panel’s gonna fit!

 _Yes_ , he replies, trying not to sound like a sullen three-year-old. _I’m here too, you know._

 _Pfff -- then_ come here _you giant, ridiculous human! Bring Gamora._

Peter grumbles again as he gingerly maneuvers his way out of the fire-scorched hulk of metal. He collects up Gamora, Drax, and Blair and shuffles the lot of them off toward where he can still hear Rocket’s excitement -- it’s even audible, with his voice ringing out across the clanging of metal-recycling. It must be some fancy-ass control panel, is all Peter’s got to say.

Rocket’s standing halfway up the ramp to a crumpled thing that Peter thinks has to be a ship, but it’s hard to tell, with the way the hull is just shredded in places and completely sheared off in others. It doesn’t even have a nose, and Peter can see all the way to the back, where the rents in the hull let light in. Rocket’s grinning at them, and Jim’s leaning against a busted holo-imager nearby grinning at then, and Groot isn’t grinning at them, but he’s got his head stuck inside the probably-a-ship making happy-ish Groot-noises.

“C’mon,” Rocket says. “Take a look,” and Peter’s getting seriously irritated, because they don’t have time to waste on this. They’re _busy_ , dammit, but he goes to stand next to Rocket, glaring critically at this crapheap of a ship that has apparently usurped Rocket’s affections.

Or, uh, maybe not. Rocket’s got him by the collar of his Ravager coat and is basically mauling him with his teeth and his tongue and his weird fruit-drink-breath. (Seriously, he should probably talk to someone about having that stuff tested for addictive ingredients.)

“Uhm...” he manages to say, when Rocket lets him up for air. They’re nearly of a height, with Rocket standing on the rickety, rusted ramp, and Peter realizes that was probably intentional. Huh.

“Gamora, take a look, find out if it’s Kree. I’ll get back to you in a minute.”

He’s kissing Peter again, then, and they really are excellent at this, for a couple people who only have one set of human lips between them. Peter’s panting into Rocket’s whiskers, but he doesn’t stop leaning into him when Rocket allows him to breathe again. It’s finally clicking, and Peter feels really, really stupid, but he has to laugh. Kree. He wanted to know if the ship was Kree. It’s... Rocket _found_ the modified Starlight in a small-time scrapyard while looking for a two-switch gravity panel.

“We really are a study in coincidence,” he mumbles into the top of Rocket’s head and Rocket laughs and nods.

 _Thanks_ , he thinks at Peter, _for blowing up integral parts of your ship with my favorite mini-bomb prototype._

_Well, thank you, then, for not labeling your mini-bombs. Very helpful._

They collapse into a fit of giggles and, when the rusted ramp groans beneath the added stress of Peter’s weight, they can only laugh harder.

A cough comes from behind them, impatient. Peter turns to find Gamora standing there, one eyebrow raised, a mess of wires and unlit diodes tucked carefully into one arm.

“I take it this is the cloak?” she asks. “This is definitely a Kree ship, though from long before my time. We should take the control panel from this ship, and a few other things. Make it look casual, keep the prices down.”

Peter hums his agreement, but he figures he still has a stupid grin on his face. He doesn’t try to hide it under a guise of seriousness. Everything is going to be fine.

*

Everything is going to be fine. Not that Peter would tell you that if you asked him. Or even if you didn’t ask him.

Peter’s shifted from _yeah-everything’s great_ into Universe’s Biggest Worrywart in the matter of about five minutes. Rocket knows he thinks he’s being reasonable, but there’s really nothing they can do to speed the process of returning their humans to their home.

They have to cram the cloaking mechanism into one of the access tunnels in the back of the starboard wing of the Milano, and Rocket’s trying not to be _too_ optimistic, but he can tell this is going to work. The cloak has to have a direct line to the engines, but it wasn’t meant to be exposed to open space, so the access tunnel was really the only option. The Kree ship had been designed entirely around it, but they certainly don’t have the luxury of rewiring the engine’s supply lines right now. Peter’s shields, which are weak at best because they haven’t met with any real telepaths yet, are practically nonexistent. Peter’s thinking almost as hard about not projecting as he is about how much time it’s going to take to get to Terra and all the things that could go wrong. Rocket wonders if the weak shields are an effect of the stress. Rocket scrambles down the rungs on the wall and dodges Gamora on her way up. She’s going to checkhis wiring work; none of them are sure about this tech, and he’s over being offended about this kind of double-checking.

 _It really is awesome, you know_ , he interrupts Peter’s thoughts, trying to sound at least a little offended because Peter doesn’t care how cool the tech is. _The find of a lifetime._

 _Yeah, I know_ , Peter says with a half-grin. _You can explain it to me later. You’ll make it interesting and we won’t be on a tight schedule._

Rocket snorts a little at that. It’s true, they’re not really on a schedule so much as mindlessly scrambling to get Jim and Blair back to Terra before the entire universe gets wind of their little excursion. He grabs Peter’s hand and guides him around where Groot is sprawled across the hall floor, sorting all the tools back into their places.

 _Take him to the galley, make him eat_ ,Groot says. 

“Yeah, like that’ll be a problem,” Rocket returns with a laugh, but he does as Groot suggested.

 _Is it done, though?_ Peter asks. _Anything I can do?_

“Well, assuming Gamora doesn’t find any detached wires floating around in there, it’s done. But...” he pauses and listens, catalogs the Terran words that Rocket assumes are curses, hears the clink of a wrench on the floor of the common area. “I think, after we rustle up some food, we should check on Jim. Sounds like he convinced Drax he could fix the grav panel.”

Peter grins at him, and follows without further complaint. He’s still worrying, Rocket notes, but a game of Educate the Humies sounds like a great distraction.


	37. Terra Incognita

“Think we have more shields up than we need,” Drax opines. “Their atmosphere is... relatively inconsequential. No flying debris.”

“Right. Keep ‘em up unless we run low on power. Rather have too much than too little.”

“Yeah, especially if you aim for the hole in the ozone,” Jim mutters from the back row of seats. Rocket’s head snaps around, half an ear focused on the steady beep of his control panels.

“What?” he says over the general melee of the Milano preparing to enter atmo. “You didn’t say anything about an ozone! What’s an ozone?”

“It’s nothing, Rocket, it’s just the atmosphere. Jim’s a conspriacy theorist. Nothing to worry about, I swear!” Blair says, and Rocket relaxes a fraction. He can’t help but continue to listen, though.

“You’re the one who taught me about the effects of carbon on the ozone, Sandburg. Don’t blame it on me.” Jim’s whispering, but Rocket’s got his hearing turned up to listen for the engine hum.

“Yeah, and I buy it too, man, but you can’t just whip that out there and distract the nice people who are trying to _fly_ our damn _spaceship_ , Jim!” 

“They can handle it,” Jim grumbles, but he doesn’t make any more snide comments.

Rocket returns his focus to the cloaking system monitors. Everything’s green and the cloak isn’t even pulling as much power from the main engines as they had expected. All good.

“Alright, folks, all clear, so we’ll be sailing a course for North America. If you’ll look out the starboard screens, you’ll see... Well, you’ll see a fuckton of water and a bunch of really ugly buildings, probably. Sorry, guys, no offense, but the architecture around here is awful.” Peter’s happy as a clam in his position as both the boss and the comic relief, and it makes Rocket glad to see the tension leeching out of his shoulders a little.

“As it stands,” Peter continues, “we will be landing our fair craft in... Two point two minutes, so please put your safety belts on and try not to throw up on the pilot!”

Rocket’s monitoring the cloak with all the concentration he can muster, but it really is only about two minutes before Peter has them hovering over a building in a giant city. 

“You’re sure about the weight thing?” Peter asks Jim, and Rocket snorts. If Jim wasn’t sure, they wouldn’t have gotten this far.

“Positive,” Jim says, and then Peter is slowly lowering the Milano to rest on top of a gorram _Terran building_. 

Rocket’s a little nervous about how well the cloak is going to function without the benefit of the Milano’s engines behind it, but all the calculations work out, so he just closes his eyes and steps away from the control panel. Quill’s not stupid, really, and he wouldn’t take them into a situation he wasn’t at least reasonably sure about.

They troop out onto the roof like they’ve come to stay and Jim ducks down through the stairwell to see whether anyone’s around. The Milano is completely invisible once you’re outside it, and Rocket’s just hoping that they don’t give themselves away by hanging around for a few minutes. They had, of course, discussed dropping Jim and Blair on the roof and then taking off immediately, but the guardians had all agreed that would be far too much like dumping bags of potatoes at a train depot. Well, except for Drax. He got a little caught up in the potato-bag metaphor, but he did agree that abandoning their friends to an unknown fate was not very sporting. 

Thus, tea party at Chez Humie. Rocket disapproved, in a logical kind of way, but he hadn’t argued with Quill. It seemed dangerous, but he could hear all of Peter’s counterarguments just _waiting_ for someone to challenge him, so Rocket spared himself the headache.

*

“Clear,” Jim says, holding the door open for them all to troop down the stairs and into the apartment that Jim and Blair share. Peter’s having weird deja-vu moments because this place really does _feel_ like the Earth from his childhood, even though it’s significantly colder. “Welcome to the Ellison-Sandburg residence. Chief,” Jim says to Blair as he props the door at the bottom of the stairs open, “there’s crime scene tape all over the place, still. Simon’s gonna have a fit when we... Well, should we call him, or just show up at the station?”

Blair heads into what Peter thinks must be the kitchen and stands in front of the stove. Peter vaguely recognizes its purpose from faded memories of making s’mores over the blue flame in his grandma’s kitchen. There’s a... a silver thing, a tea kettle Peter gleans from Blair’s thoughts, though there’s a memory somewhere in there with Grandma telling him about how some people drink their tea hot and isn’t that _weird_ but cool, but he doesn’t remember anything like the shiny kettle Blair’s staring at.

The guardians all kind of spread around the room, perching on the couch or sitting on the floor as necessary. They all look uncomfortable, and Peter’s just now realizing that he doesn’t know what they’re supposed to _do_ to make sure Jim and Blair are in the right place and safe.

 _Sweep the place?_ Rocket asks in his head. Peter nods and they both stand. Yes, Jim has probably checked the place over already, but an extra check -- and with their technology -- never hurts.

They start with the front door; not all the way out in the hall by the stairwell, but close enough. Peter’s got a holoscreen set up for life signs and electronic device detection, and Rocket’s brought all his senses to bear on the minute details of the apartment.

_Most recent visitor was a week ago, human, big guy in a big coat, checked the place over, sat on the couch._

_Good_ , Peter returns. _Well, hell, there’s a camera angled for the front door, dammit--_

“Jim,” he says out loud. “Camera, up there. Any idea who or why?”

“Shit,” Jim says. “No, maybe Simon -- our boss, the police... Chief. Boss. I’ll call him, maybe he’ll have an idea. Meantime, stay put.”

Blair heads up the stairs to the landing outside Jim’s bedroom and pries the hunk of black plastic off the handrail to look at it.

“Hello, yes, put me through to Captain Simon Banks, please. I’m sure he’ll speak with me. Ellison. Thank you,” Jim says as Peter catches the camera, which Blair calls a “bug,” as he drops it. He clutches it in his fist and takes it to the kitchen. Jim holds out a glass of water. Suddenly, even Peter can hear the voice on the other end of the phone.

“--don’t you dare, Ellison, that bug was--” and Jim sets the glass of water aside and holds his hand out for the bug, rolling his eyes at Peter.

“Yes, sir, it’s right here, sir. May I ask why you felt you needed to bug my apartment, Simon?... Hmm. Okay, yes, I know, Simon. I am sorry about that, it definitely wasn’t our choice. Right. We missed you, too. Ah, Simon? Delete the last twenty minutes or so, would you? My friends aren’t exactly interested in being reported to the authorities. No, really, they’re good guys, Simon. And lady, sorry ma’am. No, Simon, speaking to someone else.” Peter chuckles and sidles out of the kitchen, even as Jim reassures his boss that he isn’t hosting some kind of early Halloween party.

“Well, folks,” Peter says. “It looks like our work here is done. Sounds like Jim’s got your return from parts unknown all sorted out, Blair.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Blair says, and Peter has to laugh. He doesn’t know what the guys are planning to use as their cover story, but he knows that they’ve been arguing about it since the hunt for the cloaking device began three days ago.

`”Well,” Jim sighs as he flops onto the couch next to Gamora. “That was exhausting. Simon says we’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Sandburg, but we can do it tomorrow.”

“How’d he take finding Groot in that video feed?” Blair asks.

“Eh,” Jim waves a hand nonchalantly. “He was more concerned about Rocket. Managed to convince him it’s a training excercise. Or convinced him to think he’s convinced, at least. Covert ops, and all.” Jim and Blair both grin, and all the guardians relax a little.

Peter sighs and stands up. There’s no reason for them to be here any longer. It’s time to make their getaway.

The room shifts around him immediately, all of them standing with him to shake hands and to hug and to say their good-byes.

“Thank you, Guardian Quill,” Jim says to him as they shake hands, and Peter thinks the man really means it. “You brought us home.”

“Well,” Peter replies, “thank you, too. I already had my home, but you helped me to keep him.” They grin at each other, breaking the formal atmosphere, and Rocket swats him on the back of the knee for being an impossible sap, and the Guardians of the Galaxy all troop up to their invisible spaceship parked on the roof of an apartment building just south of the Washington-Canada border.


	38. Subtlety Has Never Been Our Strong Suit

_Failing, failing, flark, Peter, I can’t fix it, conversion coil’s completely burned out, might be a replacement in the Hadron still if I--_

“On it,” Peter barks. “Drax, to Rocket’s station, keep everything on line as best you can, Rocket, go!”

He’s out of his seat and scrambling for the common area in an instant, digging into the Collider without remorse, ripping out a hunk of wires that wasn’t attached that well anyway, before he gets his hands on the coil. It looks shitty, grungy and probably not that far from burning out, too, but it might get them out of here.

“How’s it going?” Peter yells, and then “Groot, increase gravity, monitor pressure for evasives!” and then Rocket’s moving slowly toward the back access tunnels and then running, when he realizes the grav centers are holding.

He scrambles up into the access tunnel and sets to wiring the conversion coil in as quickly as possible. When it hums to life under his hands, he thinks really positive thoughts really hard and prays for a second to the raccoon-god (who Blair had actual drawings and legends of) and then races back to the cockpit.

When he’s back in his seat, it looks like it’s all doing pretty well, but then Gamora makes a startled noise.

“Engine four under strain, high fuel pressures, exhaust recycling buildup--” she starts, but Peter cuts her off.

“Rocket, the coil, it’s not the green version, is it?”

“Yes.” Flark.

“Damn. Why ya gotta be so environmentally responsible? It’s not gonna work.”

“Yeah, I get that now. What can we do? Shut down the grav systems,” Groot’s flipping switches before he’s even finished the thought. “Maybe.. All the environmentals except air? Lights out?” Drax reaches over to Gamora’s station and shuts down the environmental controls and the light systems. They’re left with only the control panel lights and the light from the viewscreens.

“Almost,” Gamroa says. “Still backed up. What can we do? Could we break atmo before they catch us if we shut the cloak down?”

“Terran flyers on our tail,” Drax inputs.

“Don’t think so, not without burning the engines out entirely, we’d be deadweight in pre-warp space. Better off...” Peter trails off, but Rocket can hear him finishing that thought. _Better off introducing ourselves to the planet at large._

“No, no, no, Quill, that’s a flarkin’ awful idea, you’re gonna get us all killed, no!”

“No, hey, Rocket this is a _great_ plan, it’ll be an adventure!” he starts, and Gamora backs him up.

“They have only projectile weapons, Rocket. We would be in no danger, I am sure.”

“Am I the only sane person?! Drax! Back me up! Tell them this is stupid!”

“Well...” Drax says, and Rocket just _knows_ that whatever Drax says isn’t going to be any help to him. “Not exactly smart, but stranding ourselves just outside Terran atmo is even worse.”

“I am Groot,” Groot says. _The flyers are getting closer. I think the cloak is failing._

“Azban help me. You’re all insane.” He sighs. The cloak is failing; the controls are sputtering and flickering sporadically.

“So you’re okay with it?” Rocket knows that Peter knows that Rocket’s going to concede the point any second now.

“Fine. Flark. Fine. Do it.”

“And, well, if it comes down to it... Rocket can always bust our dumb asses outta whatever lame jails this pre-warp planet has. Right, Rocket?” Peter flashes a thousand-watt grin at him over his shoulder with his hands still on the thruster levers.

Rocket meets grin with grin -- flark it, fine, he’s convinced -- and shuts down the cloaking system entirely. “For your dumb ass?” he says, pulling the line straight from Peter’s head. “Anything.”

Peter’s grin doesn’t fade as he takes them down, trailing a string of flimsy little atmo-flyers behind them.

*

“JIM!”

“What, what Sandburg? Yes, we’ve been gone for nearly a month, the milk is definitely not good anymore, we need to--” Jim stops talking when he hears the television, because it definitely isn’t the spoiled milk that Blair is concerned about. He takes the stairs down from the loft slowly, raking a towel over his wet hair and dreading what the news will have on-screen.

“--the craft has landed on Vancouver Island, pursued by both Canadian and American law enforcement officers. Again, we have an unidentified craft landing just east of Victoria, Canada, with eyewitness reports claiming that the craft appeared out of thin air over the Washington forests and disappearing intermittently before it landed, pursued by American aircraft and surrounded by Canadian authorities.” Jim strides across the room to stand next to Blair, who’s pushing his spare reading glasses up onto his head and rubbing at his eyes.

“Well, shit,” Jim starts to say, but the reporter accepts an index card from an off-screen, besuited arm.

“This just in, thanks Bill, there are individuals exiting the craft. Live footage now with Marlene. How’s it going, Marlene?”

“Hey, Janet. It’s getting pretty weird out here, there are uniforms everywhere and I think the president might be somewhere! Very busy.”

The camera pans away from the woman who is, Jim knows from experience, is not wearing enough clothing for a Canadian May day, to focus on the opening hatch of the Milano. The ship looks okay, which is a relief. Maybe they hadn’t been shot down, after all.

The camera pans across the mixed selection of Canadian patrol officers and US military types, all with guns of varying sizes pointed at the airlock. Jim wonders what kind of proof they’d had to provide to the Canadian authorities to get this kind of firepower across the border so quickly, but he doesn’t worry about that any more when Quill steps down from the airlock.

Whatever the man in red serge yells at Quill gets lost in the reporter’s excited chatter, but Peter responds calmly.

“If they come out, you’re gonna have to leave them alone. We’re here as long as we want to be and no longer.”

“He’s gonna get them all shot,” Blair whispers.

“Maybe. He’s right, though. They escaped from that Kiln. I don’t think Alcatraz will hold them. And I’m pretty sure Gamora can catch bullets bare-handed.”

Blair nods, and they both watch as the other Guardians file out of the Milano without a visible signal from Quill.

Rocket stands to his left, Gamora to his right, and Drax and Groot stand just behind and outside of them. They’re a formidable bunch, even rendered on a twelve-inch screen.

“Oh, shit.” Blair says then, just as it’s dawning on Jim. “He looks like he has a plan.”

Jim says nothing, because Peter is holding his arms out and ignoring the guns still half-pointed at him, ever the showman.

He flashes that ain’t-I-cute grin as the people around them raise their cameras. His teammates fold their arms as one -- Jim wonders if they practiced that -- but Peter doesn’t stop grinning.

“People of Earth! Howdy! My name is Peter Jason Quill, and I am definitely _not_ here to eat anybody’s brain!”

 

 

the end


End file.
